


President Morty Loves Torture Porn

by space_goose



Series: The Citadel of Dystopia [3]
Category: Rick and Morty
Genre: Ableism, Aftercare, Anal Fingering, BDSM, Begging, Bisection of the penis, Blindfolds, Blood As Lube, Blood and Gore, Bodily Fluids, Body Horror, Body Paint, Branding, Breathplay, Broken Bones, Butt Plugs, Cannibalism, Castration, Cock & Ball Torture, Coercion, Collars, Come Eating, Confinement, Cowgirl Position, Dark Comedy, Dildos, Dom/sub, Electrocution, Emetophilia, Emotional Manipulation, Explicit Sexual Content, Eye Gouging, Eye Licking, Eye Trauma, Finger Sucking, Fluff, Fondling, Force-Feeding, Forced Crossdressing, Forced Eye Contact, Forced Feminization, Forced Orgasm, Genital Torture, God Complex, Graphic Description, Graphoerotica, Grimdark, Hand & Finger Kink, Hand Jobs, Humiliation, Licking Bare Flesh, Loss of Limbs, M/M, Manipulation, Masochism, Masturbation, Missionary Position, Mouth Kink, Mouth torture, Multiple Sex Positions, Mutilation, Nipple Torture, Non-Consensual Body Modification, Non-Consensual Bondage, Non-Consensual Hand Jobs, Non-Consensual Kissing, Odaxelagnia, Oral Sex, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Psychological Trauma, Rape/Non-con Elements, Sadism, Sexual Assault, Skinning, Slow Burn, Spanking, Splatterpunk, Starvation, Stockholm Syndrome, Strangulation, Switching, Testicle eating, Tickling, Torture, Torture Porn, Vaginal Fingering, Vaginal Sex, Vibrators, Violence, Vomiting, Whipping
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-12-06
Updated: 2018-03-04
Packaged: 2019-02-10 02:02:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 5
Words: 41,456
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12901587
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/space_goose/pseuds/space_goose
Summary: Welcome to 41,000 words and counting of torture porn, in which the president captures a Morty traitor and interrogates him through horrible methods of torture. Soon enough, though, torture with a point turns into merciless torture just for fun.





	1. Day 1

**Author's Note:**

> this is the most fucked up thing ive ever written, and it only gets worse. im sorry in advance, but honestly, im really not sorry at all. this fic is a fucking thrill to write.

"Welcome to my humble abode," the president greeted, pushing open the two large doors for his visitor, Morty E-661. The boy stepped inside, the first thing he noticed was the disgusting squelch under his shoes. He stopped and lifted his shoe to see what he had stepped on. He hoped the president kept his place clean since he was the ruler after all.

Apparently, he didn't keep it clean.

The doors slammed shut behind him, but that didn't take his eyes off the thing he had stepped on. A red, chunk of flesh. It was imprinted onto his shoe, the meat literally squished into the nooks and crannies of his outer sole. Morty released a lengthy groan of disgust, sticking his tongue out at the sight.

"Dude..." before he could make a comment about the single chunk of flesh that just so happened to be on the floor, he lifted his head and realised that is was much more than that little lump. The entire floor beyond him was soaked red, most of it dry and now a disgusting blackish colour, but at least half of it was chunks of gore. The lumps of meat were fresh and bleeding, random pumping swellings of blood rising from them like hearts jutting out from someone's chest.

"W-what the f-f-fuck!" He exclaimed erratically, stuttering on his words as he tried to comprehend what his eyes were perceiving. It was rancid; absolutely foul! The room stunk of urine, blood, rotting flesh and mucus. These smells were emitting from the corpses set around the place which just added to the filthy appearance the room served.

The president patted E-661's shoulder as if to buddy up with him. "Don't worry, I get this reaction from everyone-- hell, even Ricks!"

E-661 couldn't blame a Rick for having this sort of reaction.

Decorating the walls were collages of skeletons, all nailed against the wall as if they were artworks. The sets of skeletons were both Rick's and Morty's, and some weren't even normal human skeletons. The bones were completely clean, somehow being the only things in the room that weren't soaked in gore but still happened to be just as brutal without the use of blood.

The ceiling was decorated with corpses hanging from meat hooks that dug deep under their rotting skin. They were eviscerated, intestinal tracts pulled out to their full length and hung from string from the ceiling as if they were museum exhibits. Even though they had died quite a while ago, the blood still had a red tinge, staining nearly every patch on their clothes and most of their bare skin. Their faces were frozen in a shock of horror, their jaws open wide and slack with white, soulless eyes that seemed to glisten in the lights. Groups of small, white maggots infested the bodies, crawling along the intestines like a tightrope, climbing under the lifeless eyeballs, and eating through the pale, rotting, greenish skin until it tore into bloody strings of meat.

The president walked past E-661, ignoring the boy's gaping mouth and horrified expression. There were words on the tip of his tongue but his horror wouldn't let them escape past his lips. They were frozen along with his face, the only thing he could move was his stomach as it churned with revulsion and terror.

"Do make yourself comfortable, Morty. I can't have you staring at the decor forever, as interesting as it may be," the other Morty spoke calmly, patting down a chair at the table.

Morty looked down, finally, and there were even more horrible things to see. Skulls lined the table, both Morty's and Rick's. They were placed in front of each chair, each one with a knife impaled within the cranium as if they were simply a knife block. They were all polished, not a speck of blood on any. It wasn't disgusting, they were just disturbing, but Morty ambled over to the chair the president was at and hesitantly took a seat.

He felt a pair of hands grab his shoulders and they kneaded into his skin subconsciously. "Do you know why I brought you here?"

E-661 gulped uncomfortably. "No..."

The grip on his shoulders grew tighter and the tone of the other's voice changed. "Don't lie to me. You know exactly why you're here."

The boy started to shake and sweat, anxiety bubbling in his chest. "I'm not lying, s-s-sir. I don't know why I'm h-here."

The massage stopped. Instead, he felt a hand on his bicep. It kneaded at the flesh like a baker and his bread, squeezing it with care and precision. It made him uncomfortable, mainly because it reminded him of someone testing to see how ripe a piece of fruit was...

"I'll give you one more chance. Tell me the truth: why are you here?"

E-661's entire mind stopped. He couldn't lie again or he was dead, but, he had a feeling that the truth would lead to the same outcome. What was the point of saying anything? He was going to die either way.

Fuck. He was going to die. He didn't want to end up like one of the Ricks on the ceiling!

The boy started to panic, tears welling up in his glistening blue eyes that were entrenched with fear and distraught. He felt like he was going to be sick.

"I'm sorry!" He exploded, his voice caught up with sobs. "I just-- I wanted some friends! Someone to call family!"

The boy behind him sighed with satisfaction, removing his hand from his bicep. "Can't you just make some friends without betraying your nation?"

"Look, I said I'm sorry! I'll go back to the surface, I promise!" He cried, slamming his fists on the table.

"It's not that easy to get away with, Morty." He grabbed Morty's pale blonde hair and threw him to the ground, tugging out a tuft of hair from his scalp with him. E-661 fell to the ground with a rough thud, his head smacking against the floor and sending a spark of pain through his head.

The president towered over him as E-661 groaned in pain, holding the sight of impact on his head.

"I don't take kindly to rebels." He took E-661's ankle in his clutches and dragged him across the floor, letting his frame pick up masses of gore along the way. The boy tried to escape his grasp; kick, struggle and even crawl away, but his hold was inescapable. He had superhuman strength or something.

"Please, sir, I can be better!" He desperately sought forgiveness but the other wasn't giving him any. He dragged him into a kitchen-like area and threw him onto the metal table situated in the centre of the room. E-661 went to move but metal restraints clamped over his wrists, ankles and forehead, securing him to the cold surface beneath his back.

"No second chances, mister," he cooed, placing a tentative hand on E-661's cheek. "Do you know what I do to naughty little boys like you?"

E-661 gulped and shrunk down. He started crying again but attempted to at least quieten his sobs as tears slipped down his cheeks. He shook his head, his body quivering with fear.

"I gobble them up!" He giggled madly, his voice on the verge of hysterics. He left E-661's side and came back with a cleaver, positioning its sharp edge on the soft pale skin of Morty's elbow joint.

"P-p-please! D-don't!" The victim sobbed, panic-stricken.

The psychopath ignored him, simply smiling at the cleaver in his hands. "This might sting a little." He lifted the weapon and swung at Morty's joint, letting the silver blade embed into his skin, sending a spray of blood into the air. The cleaver's blade stopped at the bone, but that wasn't good enough. Blood dribbled from the wound, seeping out in beads of gore as the cleaver blocked the severed blood vessels from squirting their red liquid everywhere. E-661 cried out in pain, his entire arm swelling with agony.

The president started to hack at his joint, swinging the cleaver down in swift movements. The blade quickly cut through the skin, severing blood vessels and tearing through layers of flesh along the way. It was the most agonising pain E-661 had ever felt. His limb felt as if it was on fire and that very same sensation was feeding through his body. His heart rate went dangerously quicker, along with his breathing. He could hardly catch his breath from both the loud sobs that left his lips and the heavy breaths that shook his entire body as he took them in gulps.

The blade met with bone, stopping. The tough marrow took a few hacks to get through. The silver edge of the meat cleaver scraped against the bone and chipped it, causing the bone to splinter almost entirely.

Soon, his entire arm was hacked off, leaving but a bloody, flailing stump in its wake. The dismembered forearm was taken away and thrown into a fridge, where it would remain to bleed out while the crazed boy dismembered his alternative self.

"Now, E-661, if I let you go, are you willing to reveal the location of your resistance camp to us?" He tested, walking back over to his sobbing victim. Morty was crying excessively, taking huge gasps of air as agony assaulted his feeble senses.

But the boy, even in his great pain, shook his head. He couldn't betray his family no matter what.

"Really? It means this torture stops. I can even get you a bionic arm to replace that bloody stump."

"I-I'm not-- not letting you h-hurt t-them..." he mumbled out, glaring at his torturer with hateful eyes.

"I can let you live in freedom. You can be rich, have your own house, Rick slaves, a car, all the things normal citizens can't have. Come on, just tell me where your _stupid fucking family is!_ " His voice went from calm to loud and piercing within seconds. He slammed his hands on the side of the torture table, gripping the metal until his knuckles went white. As he breathed heavily, he resembled an angry bull getting ready to charge.

E-661 wanted freedom, but he couldn't betray them. He just couldn't. Anyway, obviously, the president was lying. Everyone knew he was just a manipulative piece of shit.

"I'm not... t-telling you sh-shit, Mr President."

The president sighed, a look of light enjoyment on his face. He turned away, holding a hand to his face as he laughed. "Oh, man. You really are stupid, aren't you?"

"No, I-I'm doing this for them." He was really starting to feel light headed. Blood was rushing out of his arm and spilling onto the table and floor in puddles of scarlet.

The president noticed this and flipped a switch on the table. A bubble of blue light erupted into the room, fading within an instant. The blood kept flowing, but the feeling of dizziness disappeared instantly. He could literally feel the blood pumping through his veins and the feeling alone made his limbs ache and drove the painful urge to stretch and move his muscles. The burning sensation was still evident, though. Actually, it felt worse now with the light-headiness gone.

"It's a modified immortality field. You don't die, but it doesn't regrow limbs. See all that blood spilling out of your arm? It won't stop. Trillions of nanobots are literally making blood for you every second now." He smiled, tapping his nails on the metal table. "I'm not letting you die. You're going to feel every last bit of this until you give in and tell me the location of your resistance camp."

E-661 bared his teeth, tears welling in his eyes again. The pain was getting worse by the second and he had a feeling it wasn't just because he was fully conscious. That immortality field was doing something to his nerves, it made them more alert and sensitive. Every nerve in his arm was tingling painfully, bringing tears to his eyes and a sickening parched feeling to his throat.

"Fine. The torture continues then." He pressed his fingers into E-661's bloodstained white button-up shirt, ripping into the fabric with his nails. He tore the clothes apart, pulling at the material roughly as it split into strings of cotton. When it was ripped enough, he pulled the shredded shirt off his sweaty chest, wrapping it in a ball and tossing it over to the metal bench behind them.

Next, he grabbed E-661's flailing stump of an arm and held it tightly in his hands, letting his nails dig into the soft flesh. Morty yelped, trying to pull his stump out of the secure grasp. It proved nothing since the president's superhuman strength was at play again. The grip grew tighter by the second until it literally splintered the humerus, sending a new wave of pain through the victim's body. A piercing scream left E-661's mouth as his bone broke and the fractures cut through his flesh.

"Stop moving," the torturer grumbled under his breath, attempting to control the frantic thrashing of the panicked boy's arm.

In a bout of anger, he swung the cleaver down, hitting him directly on the shoulder. The blade once again dug through the skin with ease, slicing tendons and ligaments with wet snaps. He hacked into the bone and sent sprays of gore into the air, listening to the shrill screams of pain that reverberated around the tight space, only doubling the volume of the deafening sound. When the scream became too loud for even the president to handle, he grabbed the nub that was still hanging on by skin and tugged with all his might, tearing the skin from his flesh in a disgusting, wet rip. It tore a strip of skin down his side, leaving red, bloody flesh in its wake.

The sound E-661 released literally made the president's ears ring, causing him to clap his hands over his ears so he wouldn't go deaf. Loud sobbing followed after, screams of pure agony in-between each choked sob. The victim's entire body was seized with excruciating agony, the unexpected attack had sent his mind blank and numb for a millisecond before it all came back to him in a wave of unforgiving pain. A warm release of urine stained his pants a deeper shade of black, wetting himself from the shock.

"SHUT THE FUCK UP!" His oppressor screamed, literally smacking him across the head with his own dismembered stump of an arm. E-661 couldn't even hear him over the ringing in his ears. His screams reduced to loud sobs, the burning sensation on his side still evident and horrible. He swore he had a phantom limb because he could still feel the ache in his missing arm.

When he was quiet enough, the president sighed in relief, still holding the nub in his hands. Blood was both leaking from the stump and the gaping hole in E-661's side, the red liquid pooling on the floor and adding to the already large puddles of gore from the last assault.

"Look at me."

When E-661 didn't even acknowledge the greedy boy, he growled and grabbed his face, pulling his head to face him. "LOOK. AT. ME."

The agonised victim stared at him with lidded eyes, hardly even able to comprehend the situation.

"You see this?" He shook the nub in front of him, trying to get his uttermost attention. The torn skin dangled from the stump in a disgusting fashion. With his attention, he held the nub on the table and cut off the hanging skin with the cleaver, then lifted the now loose skin.

"I want you to tell me how you taste."

E-661, even in his dazed state, froze almost immediately. He was _not_ pulling an Elizabeth Báthory on him."N-no, no, no, no--"

"Shhhh..." the suited boy silenced him, dragging a finger down his lips. Blood smeared on E-661's lips, his own blood, it was disgusting. "Don't fight back or I'll make the torture worse."

E-661 whimpered, shaking his head the best he could in his bonds.

The evil Morty tore the flap of skin in half, folding up both halves of it until it was an edible size.

"Open wide," he cooed, pulling open E-661's jaw.

"Aaahhh," he croaked, trying to snap his jaw shut but the hold his capturer had was too strong.

" _Here comes the aeroplane._ " As if E-661 was a baby, he tipped the human meat into his mouth, forcefully closing his jaw shut after and holding it closed. He gagged, struggling in the evil grasp. His screams were muffled as he desperately wanted to thrash in his inescapable bonds.

"Chew your food!" He growled, forcing Morty to chew his own skin by pulling the boy's jaw up and down. The skin broke under his teeth, crushing the meat into a red paste. It was squishy and warm, the scarlet strings of flesh stuck to his enamel. The taste was foul. A raw meaty taste and the thick flavour of iron, along with a foreign taste that made him gag.

It wasn't just the taste that was disgusting, it was mostly just the fact that he was being forced to eat his own skin. The thought alone made him sick and threatened to spill his guts all over himself.

He was too scared to stop chewing when the president released his jaw. The moment he made eye contact with him, his eyes pretty much screamed 'don't stop,' so he didn't. As disgusting as it was, he kept chewing it until it was complete mush in his mouth. The rich iron taste was prominent on his tongue, but he found that he tasted a lot like... Pork. He was a pig.

He was a farmer's pig in an abattoir for his sick desires. Said abattoir was simply a farm, but every farm was a place of slaughter. Countless animals murdered and grounded into meat, going through weeks or months of torture and pain before they're finally killed. The Citadel was a farm. The citizens were the animals, the police and guards were the farmer's dogs, and the president, well, he was the fucked-up farmer.

Morty didn't want to get eaten. He didn't want to get grounded into meat. But no matter what, he couldn't spit out the skin.

"Swallow it, piggy," the president urged shallowly, snark in his tone.

With a whimper, he swallowed the meat, a sick twisting feeling assaulting his gut as it rushed down his throat. He gagged, his body quivering with revulsion and dread. He scrunched up his face, a sickened gasp following after. He could hardly keep the bile down.

"Tastes disgusting, doesn't it?" He plopped the other half in his own mouth, eating it without a hint of hesitation. It was almost as if he had practised how to eat human meat because he seemed to do it with style. He swallowed it with ease, not gagging on it or anything. E-661's stomach cringed. He just watched his counterpart eat his excoriated skin.

"I was never a fan of Mom's roast pork. But trust me, cooked human skin is fucking marvellous. Actually, it doesn't matter what I say, you all buy and eat human meat daily." The way he said it was enough to send chills down E-661's spine. He just confirmed that everyone on the Citadel had been feasting on skin without even realising but he said it as if it wasn't a big deal.

But it was a disgustingly big deal.

"Enough of that. Let me tell you what's going to happen to you. This isn't just me torturing you for my own sick pleasure, it's an interrogation. I'll only remove one of each body part, but if you fail to tell me where your resistance camp is, I'll be forced to drain you of your blood while I flay you alive. Don't forget about my handy immortality field, buddy."

E-661 suddenly started to cry, quietly blubbering to himself as tears ran down his cheeks. He couldn't betray his family!

"Fuck you," he finally spat, sending a hateful glare at the president. His eyes glistened with tears as he stared down his enemy, but his enemy simply smiled in response.

"Aw, that's cute," he cooed, tapping his nose. The friendly gesture wasn't taken kindly. E-661 released a feral growl, snapping his teeth at the intruder.

The president tsked, shaking his finger. "Now, now, don't be so rude. Now let's see, this next activity is going to be quite envisioning, I know you, my star pupil, would see the deep meaning of this. Woo boy, these puns couldn't get any cornea."

Oh no.

The president, with a grin, left the table for a second before returning with a scalpel in his hands. The surgical instrument set panic alarms off within E-661's mind, warning him to escape before anything got any worse.

He held the scalpel in the air, pretending to dig into something and then pop something out, which he resembled by smacking his lips with an echoing 'pop!'.

It didn't take long for E-661 to realise what he meant.

"Now, keep your left eye open for me, I don't want to miss my mark."

The scalpel sparkled in the dim light, approaching its victim with the intent to harm. E-661 tried squirming again, scared to close his eyes. He didn't want the scalpel to cut through his eyelid as well, that would only double the pain. He knew in his heart there was no way he could stop the lancet from reaching its target.

The blade dug in just under the eyeball and slid into the lower waterline, triggering highly sensitive nerves along the way. He instinctively blinked and tears formed in his eye, a high pitched scream emitting from him right after. The pain was absolutely horrible. Blood trickled from the damaged eye, dribbling down his face in slicks of red. They were warm against his cold skin, but it felt disgusting.

"Open your eyes, moron," he snarled, forcing the scalpel deeper into his eye. E-661's eyes shot open, bloodshot and his pupils dilated at the unexpected spike of pain. The president, glad he had opened his eyes wide enough, cut around the circumference of his eyeball, slicing through muscle and skin. The pain was unbearable. It burned furiously, leaving but a pulsing rhythmic ache in his head.

Weak cries slipped past his lips as the agony in his eyeball raged on. Half his vision was blurred and almost completely black, soon to be gone forever. It was terrifying to think what the world looked like without two eyes.

"Appreciate the left side of your vision for the last time, Morty," the president suggested, twirling the scalpel in his bloodied fingers.

He simply cried out in fear instead, too fearful to appreciate something he was scared of losing.

"Well, whatever floats your boat, then." With a sick grin, he slipped the scalpel under his eye again, instead, pushing it all the way to the back and inciting more pain into E-661's already agony-wracked frame. With a push, his eyeball popped out of his socket, all the red veins that climbed around the back of the eye clear in view and seeming to pulse erratically.

"Did you hear that pop? Gets you hard, doesn't it?" His torturer joked, putting down the scalpel. He instead jumped onto the boy, straddling his hips and staring down at him, the light creating a haunting silhouette over him. He leaned down and opened his jaws, literally wrapping his lips around the dislodged eye and biting down on the optic nerve. E-661 could feel every last thing the president was doing and cried in agony, tears spilling from his empty eye socket and mixing with the blood. With a rough bite of his teeth, the ocular muscles snapped and tore away from the socket, falling to the surface of E-661's face in a sick display of gore and pus. The eyeball was taken away in the president's mouth, secured behind his teeth. Yellow chunks of pus squeezed from the eyeball, along with sticky dribbles of gore.

The evil Morty laughed, blood, pus and tears trickling down his chin, and pulled the eyeball out of his mouth and surveyed it as he held it carefully between his bloodied fingers. He gave it a single, slow lick, making sure E-661 was watching. It tasted like blood and mucus. The blue irises stared dead ahead, the sclera almost completely red from the trauma the eye had sustained. There was still a remnant of the ocular muscles still connected to the eye, but that didn't bother him. He went to his bench and plopped the eyeball in a jar full of liquid, then continued to place it in the fridge where E-661's arm laid.

He returned to his torture subject, who was sobbing and quivering in his bonds. He leaned over him, looking at him with loving eyes, while E-661 returned a single hate-filled eye. The president smiled at his attempt to look frightening and simply tapped his nose in acknowledgement.

"Okay, look. I have a lot of sick, twisted things in mind that I would just _love_ to do to you, but I can't choose which one. So tell me, how much do you love your dick?"

E-661, in confusion and fear, shrugged the only shoulder he had. "The s-same amount you love y-y-yours," he replied, his voice still hoarse from crying and screaming.

"If you love yours the same way I love mine, then you must think your dick is useless unless you're fucking someone's eye socket."

E-661 went stiff. "W-wha--"

"And no, I'm not fucking your eye socket, as much as I want to. It gets quite tedious after you've done it nearly fifty times." He went silent as he searched for his next words. "So? Do you want your dick or not?"

E-661 nodded, even though it was obvious he wanted to keep his member connected to his body.

"Ah, I see. Well, you'll find out if you answered that correctly after our next little game. Say, have you heard of the term 'flaying' before?"

It sounded familiar, but he couldn't quite put his finger on it. "N-no..."

"Lemme show you."

From his bench, he grabbed a knife, a rather sharp one and curved too. It's edge looked deadly and painful to have against your skin. E-661 immediately grew tense and anxious again. The president went down to Morty's legs, holding the silver blade over his legs. He cut through the fabric of his black jeans, cutting a horizontal line down each leg so the pants could be taken off without the need to remove the bonds. When his pants were removed he felt vulnerable and naked, even though he was still wearing boxers. Nevermind, he wasn't wearing boxers, he was wearing a simple pair of knickers. Fuck, he felt even more exposed and uncomfortable knowing that.

Next, the president let the blade of the knife drag across his skin without actually cutting it, but the cold metal alone made him shiver.

The knife suddenly slipped into his skin, but not deep enough to make him scream in agony. It was a light burning pain that wasn't as bad as getting your eye gouged out or having your arm torn off. The blade made a full incision around the circumference of his leg, except the surface that was flat on the table, the pain only getting worse the longer he went. The knife went back to its beginning point and dug under the skin, cutting away half a meter of the flesh and muscle that connected the layer of skin to the rest of his body. The knife was discarded, the rest of the flaying process being left to the president's bare hands.

"This is what flaying is." He grabbed the loose skin and tugged at it, pulling the skin from his leg with a disgusting moist tear of flesh. He ripped the rest of the skin off his leg, filling the room with fleshy rips and the piercing screams of E-661. The muscle tissue the skin was tethered to sometimes was pulled away too in patches of gore, but mainly the caucasian skin was removed, the nerve-filled organ triggering nearly every single nerve possible and sending E-661 into violent convulsions.

"P-P-PLEEASE! FOR THE LOVE OF G-GOD, FUCKING S-S-STOP," he shrieked horrifically, his leg starting to spasm in agony as he sobbed and strained his entire body, the metal bonds starting to cut into his soft skin from his continuous vehement struggling and thrashing.

President Morty laughed, finishing off the strip of skin he was tearing off. His leg was left a skinless mess of blood, flesh and vines of veins and arteries, bleeding its scarlet gore all over the silver table and into the drains under it. The exposed flesh practically called for the evil Morty to do horrible things to it, and there was no way he was going to say no to his sadistic desires.

He lowered his head down to the bleeding flesh, taking his moist tongue and letting it slide across his red meat.

The scream E-661 produced was five times worse than the last one. He started hacking from the pain of screaming, his throat becoming parched and aching from the immense pressure it was forced to endure. "P-P-PL-E-E-ASE S-STOP!"

His torturer chuckled as his tongue continued the job. The pink meat left a trail of cold, wet saliva on the exposed flesh, sending the victim's nerves into a spasm of excruciating agony.

As E-661's screams reduced to weeping with excessive amounts of mucus drooling down his face, president Morty stopped licking his skinless leg and started to massage it instead as he talked. The pain nearly made E661's ears ring, or maybe he was just to caught up in the pain to focus on what the president had to say.

"Flaying is just a cooler term for skinning, but I'm guessing you already figured that out." He stopped kneading the bloody flesh and sighed, rubbing his temples in thought. He could hardly think straight over E-661's heavy broken gasps and sobs.

"You know what, E-661? I don't know why I'm even deciding to go easy on you," he suddenly avowed, laughing to himself. "God, you're such an idiot, too. There's no point even resisting to spill the beans because one way or another, I'm going to get that information from you. Sure, I have machines that can read your mind, but that shit is boring."

He replaced his skinning knife with the scalpel he had used before, then grabbed the waistline of Morty's underwear. He pulled the undergarments off, letting the fabric rub over his exposed flesh. E-661 couldn't decide to either groan from the sudden spark of pain or start panicking since the president happened to be removing the only closure his cock had.

"W-what are you doing?!" He quizzed, concerned and frightened. He felt completely exposed now and he hated it.

He remained quiet, cutting the clothing item in half and throwing it to the floor. E-661 was left bare, his dick the opposite of erect and his pubic hairs making his groin resemble of a forest of dead trees.

"Jeez, I didn't ban shaving," he mumbled to nobody in particular, gripping the scalpel. He grabbed the boy's dick without any warning, holding it in a painfully tight grip. He wasn't trying to pleasure E-661 in any way, but honestly, it was always a good torture method to make the victim get turned on by something their torturer does to them. This wasn't one of those days. The president just wanted him to suffer.

E-661 groaned at the unexpected touch, worry overcoming him and making him more frightened of the touch than aroused. It was just really uncomfortable to have someone hold your dick after they've been horribly torturing you for over an hour. It didn't help that he had a scalpel in his other hand.

The president may not have wanted to sexually arouse the boy, but he definitely wanted him to be erect so his plan could actually work. He took his thumb to the tip of his member, rubbing gently onto the pink skin. A suppressed moan left E-661's lips, followed by a whimper. He continued to rub him, then started to stroke his length with his bloodied hand. Blood was smeared on the aroused cock, leaving marks of red on the Caucasian skin. Within at least ten strokes Morty was already erect, moans becoming harder to keep to himself.

A minute passed and Morty could feel his groin tingling and his toes curling in on themselves. He couldn't come, he didn't want to! He couldn't!

"Ahhhh!" Finally, the moan he was trying to suppress released from his throat, followed by a squirt of white cum from the tip of his member. His face was red and hot, along with his cock. The president, on the other hand, was shocked and gasped when he released. The cum ended up on his hand but the rest went onto the floor, which he, unfortunately, would have to clean before he ended up slipping on it.

He shook his hand in an attempt to get the sex juice off it and stuck his tongue out in disgust. He wasn't expecting him to come that quickly, actually, he wasn't really expecting him to come at all.

"Ew, I can see you're a virgin alright," he stated, leaving E-661's side as the boy moaned and breathed heavily, his face flustered and blotchy.

He washed the cum off his hand with his handy sink and then put on a pair of gloves, grabbing a towel. He ducked down, wiping the excess cum from the floor, kneeling in puddles of blood that didn't flow into the grating under the table. The scarlet liquid stained his knees and leg a dark red, completely ruining his grey pants even though they already had specks of blood soaked into them. He finished the job, even cleaning up the blood, grumbling, and stood up from the floor, throwing the towel and gloves into the sink. He picked up his scalpel again and grabbed E-661's cock, this time not giving him a handjob.

The boy gasped in shock, not wanting to go through the process again. "D-don't..."

The scalpel made contact with the tip of his member, the blade sitting in the centre of the groove. When he pushed it in slightly, E-661 screamed and begged him to stop immediately. "I'LL TELL YOU WHERE THE CAMP IS JUST PLEASE DON'T DO THAT!"

He didn't want to betray his family, but he couldn't do this anymore. He didn't want to feel this pain anymore. He'd rather be dead than having to live in pain for eternity. When he was dead, he wouldn't even know he gave up his family's location. There would be no guilt and no pain, just an eternal sleep.

"So, you've finally cracked. And just before the good part, too! Damn. Actually, you know what? Hold that thought. I wanna finish this."

Karma hit E-661 bad. Maybe there wasn't any point in spilling the beans.

The scalpel was driven into the foreskin, cutting through the skin of his dick and spilling blood everywhere. E-661 screamed so piercingly loud that he started to choke, his throat finally ruined by his screaming. Snot dribbled from his nose as he cried out, gagging from the horrible ache in his throat and his groin. His entire body went tense in pain and spasmed violently, just before the shock and pain finally got to him and he passed out on the table. Everything went black and the pain had finally disappeared.

He came to on the table, his vision blurry and his head sore. He released a pained groan, a light stinging in five different parts of his body. He opened his eyes fully, making eye contact with an irritated suited Morty.

"Really? You passed out? Jeez, you're lucky I had any adrenaline left." He pulled the syringe out his neck, inciting a grunt from E-661. The needle was thrown onto the bench behind them. The clattering sound of glass on metal brought E-661 out of his dozy state, a whole new pain assaulting his senses. His cock was throbbing and he could literally feel something cold and metal embedded in it.

The president held the handle of the scalpel and continued bisecting his cock, slicing it in half completely. E-661 was screeching just like he had before, the adrenaline just making the pain worse as he thrashed madly. The adrenaline also made him more aware and stronger, so the metal straps on his ankles and wrist cut so deep in his flesh that blood started to pool around the wounds. Even the bond on his forehead was digging into his skin, sending a dribble of scarlet down his head in a trail of warm, sticky wetness.

The blade cut the base of the cock, the two halves of skin falling to the table. The boy had screamed and cried so much that he could hardly even do both, but the pain was unbearable. His chest was convulsing as he breathed deeply, his heart pumping blood around his body fast enough for him to feel sick. It poured from severed blood vessels and from the gash where his penis used to be.

His torturer picked up the two halves, flopping them around for fun. "These look like sliced sausages now. You could just put them in a bun and voilà!" He noticed E-661's panicked stare. "No, I won't make you eat your own dick. That's fucking disgusting. Who do you think I am? Some kind of sicko?" He chuckled, tossing the halves into a jar on the bench.

"Now tell me where your hideout is." His voice went serious and he leaned over the torture table, his hands gripping the metal until his knuckles went white.

"In... In the abandoned M-Morty school... Ah-- the t-third floor..."

"Oh! There? You're kidding! That's the first place I sent my troops to look. Well, it seems this entire torture session was pointless."

E-661 suddenly became enraged when he processed the president's words, lashing out in furious screams. "WHAT?! POINTLESS?! FUCK YOU!" He snapped his teeth at him, growling loudly and angrily. Tears spilt from his eyes, the horrible anguish still lingering in his groin.

"Calm down, it's not like your life is over. I can fix you up, remember? But... I'm not going to do that." He laughed, smiling at the way E-661's hope vanished within a second. "I'm going to torture you until I get bored. Which takes a few hours, give or take. You're still a traitor, Morty E-661."

"You c-can't do this!"

"Oh," he chuckled. "Oh, but I can."

With the most malicious grin he'd worn all night, he travelled to the tool bench and pulled a pair of gardening shears from the rack. They were huge and silver, looking like a pair of scissors that were meant to cut through flesh, not paper or an overgrown hedge.

He snapped them together a few times to tease his victim, smiling as E-661 jumped everytime the blades clamped together with a loud 'snip'!

"You're so jumpy, Morty." He approached tentatively, watching E-661 with empty eyes and a cocked head. He suddenly drove the shears into his good leg, fueling E-661's desire to scream. Instead, a husky groan slipped past his lips, followed by a grimace of pain. The blades of shears were soaked in scarlet blood, letting dribbles of it rush down his leg and cling onto leg hairs on its way.

"Not even a scream?" He pulled the shears out, a squirt of blood following the exit of the blades. The leg twitched erratically, E-661's breathing quickening. He was still on an adrenaline rush, which meant the president had to go through with his plan quickly before he passed out from the shock of what he was about to do.

He pulled a lever on the metal table, a loud mechanical whir echoing around the room after. Fear plunged E-661's heart as he began to move, realising it was the table moving into an upright position. It stopped when he was halfway between completely vertical or horizontal, blood rushing down the table and into the grating below.

He was almost face-to-face with the president. He didn't like it.

"This is gonna hurt, like, a lot. I'm not even going to pull a dick move here, it's really just gonna hurt. And that wasn't a pun."

He didn't hesitate to clip off a sack of flesh. Said sack of flesh was actually a scrotum. Said scrotum was extremely sensitive, so the president definitely expected to hear the long piercing shriek emitting from his victim.

E-661 couldn't tell if screaming with such a sore and dry throat was the main source of his pain or that fact he just got his nut cut off with a huge pair of gardening shears.

The sac rolled off the table and onto the floor, too big to fit through the grating. It bled and sagged, even disgusting the president.

E-661 nearly passed out from the pain but the adrenaline kicked him back to life, forcing him to suffer the agony fully conscious. The pulsing pain in his groin was sending his vision black every few seconds. He wanted his vision to stay black forever. He wanted to die so the pain would just fucking stop.

The president put on his gloves again, slapping the plastic onto his skin. He ducked down, picking up the dismembered scrotum and actually looked hesitant about what he was doing.

He noticed E-661 staring. "What? I have my standards."

The boy couldn't even look at him, let alone what he was holding. He clamped his eyes shut tightly, his stomach churning.

A scalpel was used to slice the sac open, releasing a slight flow of blood. He reached his hand inside, pulling out an egg-shaped organ. It was bloody and had a rope of flesh hanging from it, which was the vas deferens. What he was holding in his gloved hands was a human testicle, and honestly, the president was determined to get it out of his grasp as quickly as possible. 

With a squeeze of the testis, he approached E-661 and pulled his jaw open with his other hand, forcing the boy's own testicle into his mouth. E-661 struggled so hard that he felt his ankle bones literally break under the pressure, leading him to cry out in pain. The president once again forced him to chew, however this time around he let Morty chew himself.

He couldn't. He gagged and the mere sound it made under his teeth was enough to send him overboard. His stomach gave up and erupted, sending a wave of puke from his throat. The yellowish, chunky fluid came out in a disgusting flow, spilling down his chin, chest and floor, creating a vulgar solution of liquids as it mixed with the blood. Chunks of puke also spilt onto his skinless leg. The warm wet sensation on the exposed flesh just mixed in with the other horrible agonies in his body, and honestly, it was nothing compared to the disgusting burning feeling in his parched throat. Every breath felt like fire.

The bitten testicle was a mix of the puke, but came out in nearly one piece, sitting bloody on the floor in a puddle of bile. 

The president was standing far away from the event. He didn't want puke on his suit. The blood he could put up with, but the smell of spew sickened him. He didn't care if it was burning E-661's nostrils, he only cared about himself.

"Eugh, are you fucking done?" He tested, disgusted. Specks of puke that didn't flow through the grating decorated the white floor.

E-661 whimpered in response, coughing up the remaining spew in his mouth. 

"I will make you clean this mess up if you keep making it," he grumbled. He held back the urge to shove the puke covered testicle back into his mouth since it would only make him puke even more. He instead held up the shears, moved closer to his victim, and snipped off his other scrotum. The sac slid off the table, leaving a smear of scarlet in its wake. The president caught it before it hit the floor, hardly even noticing the way E-661 didn't scream as it was cut off. He seemed so docile after spewing his guts out.

He opened the scrotum again with the scalpel, pulling out the testicle with the severed vas deferens. It resembled a deformed eye.

He had a horrible idea. An idea so horrible that it honestly made him chuckle at the thought of it. He couldn't actually do that, right?

He glanced over at E-661's empty eye socket.

_He can._

With a sick laugh, he pushed the eyelids of his socket open and quite vigorously shoved the testicle into the socket. It squelched as it scraped against the fleshy walls of the hole, fitting in almost perfectly when the vas deferens was pushed against the back of the socket. E-661 hardly squirmed, but the sounds he was making was music to the president's ears. They weren't screams, they were simply cries of disgust. 

His job was finished and he backed away, watching as E-661 erratically blinked his eyelids together and cringed each time the eyelid brushed over the flesh of the testis.

"I'm not even sorry," he laughed, the sight of an actual testicle in someone's eye socket funny to him. Then he sighed, his emotions changing completely. He was bored.

Maybe it was finally time to call quits.

"Alright, E-661. Our time here is done," he spoke, his voice almost monotonous. It was unlike any tone he'd occupied throughout the entire torture session. It was his normal voice, the one he used to address citizens or as he delivered cruel punishments for disobedient Ricks. "Don't get so hopeful. I'm not killing you."

E-661's hope was once again betrayed. He didn't even want to believe in hope anymore, that was fake.

"I need you to work with me here. I know I've been horribly torturing you for hours, but the only way your getting out of here and into a bed is by you not trying to punch me in the face."

E-661 didn't reply. He wasn't even listening.

"Cool. So when I remove these bonds, you promise not to jump on me? I don't want your vomit on me, it's disgusting."

Still no reply, but the president took it as a yes. He went to the table and configured the buttons, the metal bonds unclipping with a mechanical click and releasing their prisoner. He fell to the floor in a tangle of limbs, his skinless leg scraping against the ground and inciting a burning sensation all throughout his body. With a pained groan, he tried to move his leg but found it was too painful to do so. His other leg was still burning from the gardening shears incident and he could hardly feel that leg either.

And, even in his sheer pain and hatred for the president, he looked up at the psychopath with pleading eyes. "H-help?"

The president sighed and rolled his eyes. "Yeah, obviously, you fucking cripple." He approached tentatively, holding out a hand for the boy. With his only unharmed limb, he grabbed his hand, resisting the urge to pull the boy down and torture him himself. There wouldn't be a chance of that happening so there was no chance trying. E-661 knew how strong he was. His strength was the reason he was in this conundrum anyway.

The president pulled him onto his feet and wrapped an arm around him so he wouldn't tumble and fall. His legs couldn't even support him, especially with the ankles he broke while struggling so violently before. Simply standing was absolute agony. _What has the president done to him?_

The psychopath did most of the walking. He basically carried him along, leading him to another room full of corpses that hung from the ceiling. Well, they weren't corpses. Everyone was still alive, even though they were hanging with ropes around their necks and their guts were torn out. It was disgusting, but E-661 kept his head down. He found himself pushed into a cell by the time he looked upward. The room was dark, silent and away from the hanging corpses, but still reeked of rotting flesh, feces, urine, blood, you name it. E-661 gagged when the first waft of the smells entered his already abused nostrils.

"There's a mattress and a bucket. The slaves will clean up anything. They're mindless so don't be embarrassed. And that's all. You probably won't sleep, but goodnight anyway, Morty."

When the doors closed, E-661 was left in complete darkness, other than the low glow of the ceiling light that was infested with god knows what.

The president was right, he didn't sleep that night. He sobbed and screamed until he almost passed out from the shock. As he bashed his head against the wall until his skin cracked and bled, he cried more when he realised he really couldn't die. 

He just wanted the pain to stop.


	2. Day 2

The doors to his darkened chamber opened after hours of crying and screaming, but the night still felt silent anyway. When a beam of light poured through the gap, E-661's eye reacted badly, stringing and blinking rapidly. He pulled the testicle out of his eye ages ago and threw it into the bucket he used to vomit, piss and shit in. Putting his fingers inside his eye socket honestly had made him gag, but after many the breaks he took to keep his composure and not puke everywhere again, he had finally dug in and pulled the testicle out of his bloody socket.

The immortality field must have stretched quite a long way because he hadn't stopped bleeding for the five hours he was locked inside the chamber. The floor of his cell was drenched in gore, which he was also forced to sleep in since he bled all over the rock-hard mattress as well. It didn't help that he was completely naked, too. He was freezing. His body felt like ice.

"E-661? You still alive?" Came the mock, the president not even bothering to show remorse for his suffering victim.

"Just... kill me," he gasped out, his throat still sore from screaming.

"Why would I ever do that? You know I wouldn't do anything to hurt you."

E-661 groaned in anger in response, throwing his aching head in his hand.

The president unlocked the cell. As he moved, E-661 noticed the sound of squeaky wheels, kind of like a tray, following him. He was pulled from his cell, which still smelt of feces, urine, blood and other bodily fluids. The stench just happened to be more prominent than yesterday. E-661 was lifted onto a flat metal surface, which he realised was probably the thing that had wheels and probably the same table from yesterday. He could feel the dry blood beneath his back and the way it scraped against his delicate skin. He honestly accepted lying down on it, too scared to disobey his master.

The metal bonds clamped over his body again, once again giving him anxiety. When he was fully aware of his situation, he started panicking, breaths becoming hard to swallow and light struggling that made his broken ankle bones ache. He swore his ankles had started to swell overnight because those bonds were much tighter than yesterday.

"Calm down, Morty. It's just a repeat of yesterday, no big deal," he chuckled, pretending as if nothing was wrong. Or maybe he just thought nothing was wrong and that all of this was normal. Whatever the case, E-661 just knew he didn't want to be around him and catch whatever mental disease the psycho had.

"Well, not a repeat. Like, I'm not gonna cut your arm off again and all that. It's probably going to be worse." He pushed the table along with his victim, exiting the dark room and entering the giant cathedral of hanging Morty corpses. Now that E-661 was lying on his back, he couldn't really see their injuries, but he could definitely see their faces. They stared dead (no matter how alive they were) at the ground from the way the rope around their necks held them up.

"I didn't get any time to talk about these guys yesterday," the president calmly spoke, looking up at them, almost mesmerised. "They are my living dolls. Limbless, mindless, senseless. They can't see, hear or talk. Pain to them is sexual pleasure, and basically, they're sex slaves. I don't use them anymore, hence why they're hanging up. They got old quickly."

E-661 felt sick. Was the president going to turn him into a sex slave?

"I don't even remember their names. And, believe it or not, every Morty feels different on the inside once you get down and dirty with them."

Whatever way he was taking E-661, it wasn't the same way he got to the cell. He wasn't going back to that demented torture room, but for some reason, he wanted to go back. He had no idea where he was being taken, it could be 100x worse.

He was pushed through a pair of doors and a bright light invaded his senses, sending him temporarily blind for a second. When his eye adjusted to the blinding light, he noticed the only bright thing about the room was the white walls, floors-- everything! The light just made those colours more vibrant and beacons to his feeble eye.

The room looked like a laboratory but more like a torture room from a snuff film. Racks of tools lined the white walls, all sorts of metal bonds were situated around the place as well, some connected to the floor, some to the ceiling, and some to the wall. Even torture devices that he had never seen before were lying around, stained with dark clotted gore.

E-661 didn't want to end up on one of those machines.

"Welcome to my room of terror! This is where you'll be staying," he spun with his arms outstretched, proud of his torture dungeon. "Instead of using the pretty machines, first, we're using a sledgehammer."

E-661 was already screaming. He couldn't do this again... He just couldn't. "NO! STAY AWAY FROM ME YOU FUCKING FILTHY COCKSUCKER!"

"Watch your mouth!" He slapped his victim, leaving a red handprint across his blood-soaked face. "That's no way to talk to your master. Say sorry."

He was not going to say sorry. "Eat a dick."

The president laughed, yet, an angry expression remained on his face. "You're lucky I didn't make you do that yesterday. Say sorry or you know what'll happen."

"No."

He growled, then undid Morty's bonds with the click of a button. He pulled his body off the table and threw him onto the floor, where he landed with a rough, painful thud and a splat of blood.

"One more chance."

He groaned, his limbs aching. "Do your worse," he snarled, glaring up at him.

"Fine." He left Morty to lie on the floor with his broken legs and grabbed one of the many weapons that hung on the rack. A sledgehammer. He came back over to Morty and held the hammer over his shoulder, threatening to lift it and smash it over E-661's legs.

Morty still didn't say sorry. So the president lifted the sledgehammer, and ignoring Morty's cries, swung the hammer down and smashed his rib cage. The head of the hammer broke his skin and flesh, then cracked his ribs into fractures. The sharp shards of bone pierced his internal organs and caused him to convulse violently as he hacked up pools of blood. The scarlet fluid dribbled from his nose and came out in spurts as he attempted to breathe properly, finding that he suddenly couldn't inhale through his nose anymore because it was overflowing with his own blood.

The president swung again and the hammer hit his chest, completely immobilising his ability to breathe. He couldn't get any breaths in and he choked and hacked as his entire body was struck with a tight, burning agony. More ribs were broken, sending more shards of bone into organs and even through his skin, the fractures sticking out like a mouth with deformed teeth.

Blood spewed from his open jaws as he sobbed in pain, screams too painful for him to produce. The hammer was dropped. The torture seemed to end much too soon. E-661 was glad but afraid of why it was stopped so short.

"Are you sorry?"

E-661 couldn't even talk. But through all the blood dribbling from his orifices, he still managed to mumble a somewhat audible 'sorry, master'.

The president smirked. "Good boy. For that, I'll take off one torture from today's session, which leaves you with just three more to go." He leant down and patted his hair, combing his fingers through matted hair.

"Don't talk to me rudely-- ever," he snapped, pulling a device from his pocket. With a few clicks of said device, Morty felt his chest literally rebuilding itself and the pain slowly slipping away from him. His broken bones seemed to fuse together, along with his skin. Soon enough, he glanced down and noticed his entire chest region was just like he had been yesterday, just clean of blood and vomit. It was weird but oddly refreshing.

"There. The nanobots fixed you up, but don't think I'm doing that shit again for a while."

He stepped around Morty's fallen frame, who was still unable to walk and grabbed his broken ankles, inciting a pained yelp from the boy. He dragged him along the floor, arriving at a machine. It was simply a contraption that consisted of metal bonds that seemed to engulf the entirety of the victim's hands and feet when placed inside them. Wires upon wires were connected to these bonds, circling through the larger machine above the contraption that looked like a giant battery.

"You may be wondering, 'oh, what's this?'. Well, I'm not telling you just yet. You'll have to wait and see for yourself." He pulled E-661 up by his wrists and slid his only hand into the cylinder-shaped restraint. The device drove nail-like wires into his skin, keeping his hand secure inside the restraint. Morty was left stuck with his arm above him and his legs flopped on the floor. It was painful trying to hold up his lower body, but that was quickly fixed when the president locked both his feet into the similar restraints below.

He was now in a starfish position (just with three points instead) with wires thriving under his skin, blood dribbling down his arms.

"That process is always so boring, but here's the good part." He went up to a monitor connected to the contraption and knackered with the keys. Whatever he did must have activated something, because soon enough he heard a low rumble from above his head and the wires burrowed in his flesh felt like they were starting to heat up. Fearful that he was about to be cooked alive, he started thrashing in his restraints but only made the pain worse as the wires seemed to dig further into his skin.

Eventually, the wires became searing hot. He could feel the boil of their copper casing in his veins. Tears ran down his face as he released a long howl of pain, the burn becoming too intense to handle silently. The pain changed suddenly. With a jolt, he screamed, his body jerking violently.

He knew what that was. Electricity.

"You feel that?" The president teased, a sick smile plastered on his face. "Lemme juice it up a little." He dragged his finger up the screen, increasing the power of the machine. The battery hummed loudly as electricity fed into the restraints, wires, and into Morty's body. The electricity rocketed through his body with a loud zap and a bright flash of blue. His body spasmed violently as he was fried, his muscles taut and agonised. He released a piercing scream as he convulsed, his eye rolling to the back of his head. He felt like his insides were slowly turning to mush. He could feel the current feeding through his entire body, boiling and zapping his every nerve and tearing at him like a pack of hungry wolves. Electricity wasn't meant to actually enter your body when you were electrocuted, but whatever this machine did, the current sure as hell roasted him from the inside as well.

The electricity kept going. Minutes past, and he was still convulsing violently as his body literally cooked and boiled. His bladder had emptied many minutes ago as his insides were thrust forward abruptly. His skin was singed and covered in disgusting blisters and burns, his teeth were cooking and his brain was fried. He hardly even knew what was going on because the electricity had altered his mental state. He felt dizzy even through all the burning pain of being electrocuted. All the pain signals were coming through slow and steady, confusing him to the point where he believed that the pain was imaginary.

The president shut off the power and watched as his limp and pale body fell slack in the hold of the restraints. Clouds of smoke danced around him as the stench of cooked flesh and urine filled the room. His skin had turned black at the entry points, the exit points even darker and turning disgusting greenish colours as his skin peeled away. The blisters covering his arm and legs were squirting fluids that even the president found foul. Somehow these blisters also formed on the exposed flesh of his leg, revealing a truly sickening display.

He looked brain-dead. He was drooling, his head swinging side to side as he stared at the floor with a new-found obsession, tongue hanging out and eye wide. He was mumbling under his breath, mostly just producing moans and groans that were either from the pain or just the fact that the electricity had fried his brain.

"Hey, hey Morty," he spoke, clicking his fingers in front of his face. He didn't react. "Wake up, retard. Look at me."

Those words. Morty's head shot up and he looked at the president intensely. He moaned in response, too knackered to produce actual words.

"You sound like a fucking special kid," he mocked, sending his nanobots to work on him. He said that he wasn't going to use them again, but there was no way he was leaving E-661 brain dead. He couldn't have him groaning like an idiot and boring the president. He needed to have his sadistic pleasures satisfied and he couldn't do that if the person he was torturing was mentally retarded. The nanobots regrew the cooked parts of his brain and restored it, his moans becoming simply moans of pain and not just because he was delirious.

"Do you feel better?"

"What the-- what the fuck?" he quizzed, suddenly wheezing in pain as his skinless leg tingled with a burning sensation. His mind was blank for a moment, unable to recall what had happened, but with a single glance at the president, his stomach dropped.

His abuser noticed his expression change into that of dread. "Ah, that's better. Back to the world of the living, I see."

His body felt like it was on fire. His skin burnt and sizzled, causing him to hiss in pain through gritted teeth.

"Actually, seeing as you're already confined, I guess we'll move on to the next activity!" he chirped, his voice much too happy. He went back to the rack of tools, searching through the rack to find the perfect instrument of pain. He picked out a pair of pliers and a fishing hook connected to a wire, tucking the pliers into his pocket. He walked back over to his victim, hardly even taking notice of him as he struggled and cried out. He simply shushed him, standing in front of him as he played with the wire connected to the silver fishing hook. It wasn't made for fishing though, that was for sure.

"For this, I need you to stay still, because if I miss my mark, it's gonna hurt," he stated, placing a flat palm on E-661's bare chest. He pushed down on it until his back met with the cool surface of the wall behind him, which wasn't very far at all. Then, suddenly, the push was released. He was confronted with a, "Wait", followed by a mischevious grin. The president went to the electrocution machine's monitor and played with the settings. A familiar hot sensation started to grow within his wrist and ankles.

With E-661 already panicking, the president went back to pushing his back against the wall securely, bringing the hook into his line of sight. The hook was then brought down to his chest and the tip was gently driven into the soft tissue of his left nipple. A shrill yelp left his lips as the steel dug into his nipple, panicked breathes following until the nipple was completely pierced. A very faint dribble of blood trekked down his chest.

The heat from the machine was starting to get worse. The painful, pulsing ache inside his limbs was absolutely horrible. He didn't even think he would be able to feel the nipple torture while his limbs were being slowly cooked from the inside.

The president tugged at the meat hook, watching as the nipple started to stretch as he pulled. To E-661, it was simply an uncomfortable feeling until it was pulled too far. He could feel his skin rip as the nipple was nearly torn from his breast. With a haunting chuckle, the president yanked hard, ripping the nipple and some skin off with him. The nipple hung on the fishing hook as he dangled it in front of his victim. The region it was torn from was left red and ripe, a streak of scarlet dribbling from it as pained moans filled the room.

"Oh, isn't that just delightful?" he remarked, obviously sarcastic. With a scoff and a sudden change of emotion, he flung the fishing hook over his shoulder and pulled the pair of pliers from his pocket. He snapped them together just like he had done with the shears. The reaction from E-661 wasn't quite as delicious as yesterday, but the way his face was plastered with dread was an absolute pleasure for the deranged boy. He clamped the rough jaws of the pliers over his right nipple, tightening the clutch as much as he could before the nipple fissured under the pressure and started to bleed. The jagged surface of the pliers on his nipple was both pleasing and horribly painful and the confusion of emotions just simply left him in tears. It didn't help that the burn from the wires burrowed under his skin had got a point where he felt like his skin was melting.

With another powerful yank, the nipple and flaps of skin came clean off his chest, followed by a spray of blood. The nipple was tightly held between the plier's jaws, then dropped onto the floor. The same result was left on E-661's breast, but more damage had been done this time because of the rough extraction.

"You won't be lactating anytime soon," he commented nonchalantly, tossing the pair of pliers at E-661's face for no good reason. The metal jaws smacked him across the head, leaving a red mark on his face that would soon fade into a dark, ugly bruise. He was too busy screaming over the scorching agony coursing through his veins to care about the pliers.

The president let the copper wires burn him for a little longer. He could literally the hear the way E-661's blood sizzled under his flesh and skin and the way his bones cooked, he could even smell it. Blisters and severe burns formed inside his flesh and some even managing to grow on the epidermis, decorating his body with red spots and growths. His skin started to peel away as the burns got too severe, the heat finally cooking him almost completely. The immortality field wasn't letting him die, no matter how burnt his internal organs were.

His screams were simply just gurgles of agony as blood flooded his oral cavity and nasal cavity, soaking his face in the warm, sticky scarlet fluid. He couldn't breathe. There was too much blood. His lungs were in agony. Everything was in pain.

And then it stopped. Not completely, but at least the source of the pain had stopped. The everlasting anguish of the burn remained, his blisters and burns pulsing with a horrible sensation that felt like they would last forever.

"I think that's enough of that." With the press of a button, the restraints on E-661's aching limbs released him and he fell to the floor in a puddle of blood. His blisters were bleeding and the mere touch of the ground was making their sensitive surface sting horribly. To fix this, he sat up with his knees out so his legs and blisters didn't have to touch the ground. The air, however, was just as irritating to his wounds as the floor was.

"So I was thinking," the president started, pacing back and forth. "Since it's December back on Earth and Christmas is right around the corner, I remembered something from that movie-- what was it called... Right, the Grinch. And I thought to myself: 'wow, he eats glass? That would be painful to force someone to do'. But, it's more than that. I'm not that unoriginal." He took a sheet of glass from his pocket which E-661 presumed he kept in there for this very moment, and literally smashed it over his head. The glass broke into shards, some embedding into his skin and scalp and starting bleeding, but most of the fragments of glass fell to the floor and into the puddles of blood. E-661 groaned in anguish, his head now aching along with his burning limbs and damaged breasts.

"Say 'ah'!" E-661 didn't have time to react. The president grabbed his jaw and pulled it open, then started to pick up every shard of glass from the floor and drop it into his open mouth. They went to the back of his mouth and made breathing a challenge; a painful challenge. He plucked the shards out of his head and put them in as well, then closed his jaws and pulled out a roll of duct tape. He had definitely packed for this. The duct tape was rolled across his lips, securing them shut and entrapping the glass within his oral cavity. E-661's anxiety spiked when he started to calculate the possible risks for having glass shards in your mouth with duct tape over your lips.

As his panicked breaths were muffled by the tape, the president raised his fist and punched him. His fist collided heavily with his bottom jaw, knocking the shards of glass around his mouth. Their sharp edges cut into his gums, inciting muffled cries of pain from E-661 as blood started to spill from the deep cuts. He struck again, hitting from the other side. The shards were flung again, tearing into his pink gums and slicing at his tongue, also managing to cut the frenulum under his tongue, almost disconnecting his entire tongue from the floor of his mouth.

E-661 started thrashing from there on, his sensitive mouth overloading with pain as the sharp fragments of glass either dug in deeper or cut new gashes as the president kept the punches rolling. Each smash to his face sent his skin red and blotchy, but the inside of his mouth was turning scarlet as blood flooded in the oral cavity. All E-661 could taste was blood. The thick, iron aftertaste was disgusting. It was too heavy. He would puke if any of it got down his throat.

The punches stopped suddenly. "Now chew. Any remaining pieces won't cut you anymore if you break them down."

Why was he helping? Nevertheless, E-661 bit down anyway in an attempt to stop the pain, gasping when he felt the shards drive further into his gums or scrape across the teeth with a horrible grating sensation. He did manage to crack something so he decided to keep it up. He kept biting down until he realised what he was chewing wasn't even a shard of glass. He could feel the texture of it with his tongue as he bit on it, realising that it was literally a tooth that he didn't even realise had detached from his gums. 

With a sickened grunt, he let the already broken tooth fall into the pool of blood collecting at the floor of his mouth, then found a shard of glass to break down with his teeth. It took a while to crack the glass and was definitely painful when it brushed against his tongue. He managed to make them small enough so their sharp sides didn't send his nerves into horrible agony. There was still fractures embedded in his gums, but there wasn't much he could do about those.

"Swallow."

E-661 shook his head with a muffled grunt. He didn't want to defy him, but he couldn't. There was too much blood in his mouth.

"Are you disobeying a direct order?"

"I can't!" Came the mumbled response which the president hardly understood through the duct tape.

"Can't swallow? Why?"

"Blood..."

He chuckled, ripping the duct tape from his mouth. Before E-661 could spit the blood out, he covered his mouth with his hand. "Swallow it."

The boy shook his head again, tears starting to prick in his eyes.

"I'll give you to the count of three."

His breaths immediately hastened, his chest starting to rise as his nose whistled loudly. He still could hardly breathe from the damage his lungs had received from getting burnt.

"One."

His eyes dashed around his skull as he frantically tried to make a decision.

"Two."

_Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck--_

"Three."

He swallowed. Then he puked. The taste of the irony blood was so strong, so horrible, that he couldn't even keep it down for a second.

The sick went all over the president's hand, along with blood full of grains of glass and his crushed tooth. He didn't look affected by the event. Actually, he seemed to... Like it? E-661 wasn't sure, but when the president started to shove his fingers into the boy's mouth, he panicked again.

His fingers touched the uvula and triggered his gag reflex as he pushed his entire hand down his throat. He prodded at the back of his mouth until E-661's body couldn't take it and he puked all over again. The acidic burn in his throat was agonising and the stench along was making him sick. He had vomited on the president's hand again, but the other still didn't seem to care. He took his sick-coated hand out of E-661's mouth and inspected it, then, in the most disgusting display ever, _licked it._ He dragged his wet tongue through the spillage of puke, picking up the chunks of digested food and gore as he went. With no hesitation, he swallowed it, moaning in pleasure.

"Fuck... You taste so good," he groaned, grasping his victim's cheeks. He squished them as if he were a child and snuck a few puke-covered fingers inside his mouth, frowning playfully as E-661 jerked away with a sickened grunt.

"That's a shame. You're missing out on the good stuff."

E-661 felt like puking again. He couldn't believe the president was into emetophilia, that was disgusting. He heaved broken breaths as his throat burned from the acidic vomit, wanting to crawl away and get as far away as possible from the psychopath.

Said psychopath finally stood up, bringing E-661 with him by the pull of his hair. To keep him on his feet without falling, he held him under the armpits so he had more support than his broken ankles could provide. The president inspected him, then wiped the excess puke from E-661's mouth. Even if it was disgusting, E-661 was glad he did that so he wouldn't have to put up with the feeling of dried vomit on his lips later on.

"You look like shit," he commented. E-661 nearly barked back with a 'no shit, Sherlock', but stopped himself before possibly angering the president and only making his day worse. "Do you wanna take a shower?" he added, holding a hand under E-661's armpit again.

E-661 couldn't hold back what he wanted to say, even though it had a chance of fucking things up for him. "Only if it's not with you."

Nothing bad happened. He wasn't slapped or thrown to the floor. The president just smiled, chuckling. "I wasn't thinking about it anyway. I'll take you to the showers." He wrapped an arm around the broken boy and helped him over to the silver trolley table he was brought in. The president allowed Morty to sit on it instead of being strapped down, seeing as they were only taking a trip to the shower room.

As they ventured to the shower room, the president whistled a familiar tune that echoed through the dark halls of his murder palace.

They passed through a set of doors and entered the shower room, a long room full of shower heads, drains and even bathes. There was blood everywhere and it made the place look absolutely foul and horribly uninviting. Morty noticed another Morty in a bath very far off from them, his head hung over the edge and eyes closed. There was red water on the whitish floor beneath the bath.

"Who's that?" He asked hoarsely, forgetting that he was talking to his captor.

"Oh, that's L-34B. Fuck-- I forgot about him. He's been in there for two days, whoops!"

 _Forgot about him?_ E-661 was suddenly getting second thoughts about taking a shower.

"Anyway, let's just get you clean." He urged E-661 to get off the trolley without the use of words, pushing the table to the side. With his help, the hurt boy was brought into the shower cubicle and sat down on the floor with his back against the wall. The cold surface made him jolt.

The president turned on the shower, letting the cold water rush from the shower head and onto E-661. The boy suddenly screamed in pain, moving his legs away from the water. Then it became clear. He couldn't shower with a goddamn skinned leg.

"Oh, your leg," he said nonchalantly, followed by silence. "I'm not fixing that. Just get used to the sting." He left the shower on and sat, facing away, outside and next to the cubicle. E-661 could only see the outline of his shirt, but still felt uncomfortable showering with the other so close nearby.

At least the shower was enclosed, well, excluding the loss of a door.

E-661 washed himself the best he could with his own hands and trying to ignore the intense stinging in his leg as droplets of water touched the exposed flesh. Washing blisters and boils were also a painful task. Washing peeling skin was as well. His entire body was in pain, so washing in general really wasn't nice for him at all.

No matter how much dried blood, vomit and cum he washed away, he still felt dirty. He could still see the bruises that formed in patches of blue and black covering his arm and leg, he could see the peeled skin and burns, he could feel the way his skin crawled as he remembered the ways the president touched it. He felt _filthy_. The wounds he established yesterday at least had finally clotted and stopped bleeding. The nanobots had a thing for delaying the process of clotting wounds and E-661 didn't appreciate it.

With a final groan, he reached for the shower handle and switched the shower off, relieved that his skinless leg could have some peace.

"Finished?" The president quizzed, not moving from his position. He had standards.

"Y-yeah..."

"Hope you feel refreshed." He stood up and helped Morty onto his feet and out of the cubicle, then back onto the table where he sat once again.

He was wheeled back to his room, which smelt much better than it did before.

"I had guards clean your room so it wasn't so... Disgusting."

E-661 honestly felt appreciated. "T-thanks..."

The president helped him off the table and into his chamber, which also seemed brighter. He noticed a window very high up. The guards must have cleaned that, too. The floor was also clean off blood and whatever other horrible things that were smeared across it yesterday.

"Try to sleep. You'll feel much better," he suggested with a smile. For some reason, E-661 felt like the president was growing a liking to him and was going to set him free, but he couldn't be so hopeful. He was manipulative; he was probably just playing with his emotions. "Goodnight," the president added, closing the doors and leaving E-661 in silence.

The boy still ended up crying anyway, yet, he didn't scream. He couldn't tell if he fell asleep or not, but he definitely remembered not crying for at least an hour or two before starting up again.

Tomorrow was another day. He still had hope in his heart the president would release him eventually, but he knew somewhere deep in his heart that his wish would never come true.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> im soRRY e-661 my son


	3. Day 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> fluff? in MY kinky torture porn fic? it's more likely than you think
> 
> but it's mostly kinky shit, don't worry.

Waiting for the president to come back took longer than yesterday. Was yesterday even yesterday anymore? E-661 couldn't tell what time it was, but he had a somewhat limited knowledge of it by the way the light shone in through the tiny window in his cell. Through the day he would stare at it, leaving his neck tilted and rested against the grimy wall as he watched the streams of sunlight with both glee and sadness. The faded yellowish haze lit up the black walls, showing the various bloody handprints and footprints that covered the walls. Morty didn't want to know why or how they got there, so he continued to keep his thoughts on the sunlight; the only thing keeping him sane through this whole ordeal.

The only thing he'd seen of the outside world was a guard opening the doors and giving him a fresh bucket of water so he wouldn't dehydrate and die. Morty didn't drink it at first, hoping the dehydration would kill him if he waited long enough, but he had a hunch the nanobots won't going to let that happen and the process would be long and horrible. He had drunk from the bucket so vigorously that most of it ended up dribbling down his body and spilling onto the floor as he stuck his head into the body of water and downed it.

He was so hungry, too. His stomach felt sick, his ribs were more visible under his skin than usual. His spine was like a mountain range down his back and his limbs were thin sticks at this point. He always looked like this anyway, so he didn’t look much different. He was poorly fed from living in a secluded rebel camp where everyone was both poor and starving in the first place. He just wanted something to eat. He didn't care what, he just needed nutrients. After puking up his guts twice, all the food that was in his stomach beforehand was pretty much bare minimum and if he went on like this for any longer he would just get thinner and thinner until his body was disgustingly emaciated. He didn't want that. He wanted food.

The light from the window had gone dark two times and there was still no sign of the president. Maybe he forgot about him like that Morty in the bath, maybe he wanted E-661 to rest, or maybe he was just torturing other poor Mortys.

E-661 didn't have a clue and neither did he care. He was just glad he could rest. His wounds had clotted overtime and he had peeled off most of the burnt skin that was making him itchy. His stomach was aching, though. It was these horrible feelings in his gut that churned and made him feel like shitting out his guts, which he did eventually do, followed by excessive puking. He had a feeling it was because of all the blood he swallowed or simply just the trauma his body had been receiving. This puke, diarrhoea and whatever other horrible things his body produced made the chamber smell so disgusting that he swore he could taste it.

The light went dark again after hours of time flew past. Morty decided to sleep the best he could. He didn't like being cooped up in here, but it was better than being with the president.

Speak of the devil.

A loud slam echoed throughout the room as a pair of doors went burst open, followed by a stream of light and joyful laughing.

"Oh, Mortyyyy!" He exclaimed happily, his tone of voice more ecstatic and loud than usual.

E-661 reacted to the entrance with a fearful scream and a pained hiss as the bright light invaded his weakened eye. The world looked a little blurrier than usual.

"You wouldn't believe what happened," he started, his tone still joyful. He approached E-661 and grabbed him forcefully, pulling him to his feet. His ankles had healed slightly but standing was still quite a challenge. "I found your rebel camp!"

E-661's heart stopped. "W-wha--"

"The reason I haven't been in for a while is that I've been... having a little fun with them. Torturing five people at once is absolutely thrilling, especially when they're all friends and family," he explained, wrapping an arm around Morty's neck. The boy didn't even react. He was in shock.

"I made the Mortys jack off while the Ricks watched and forced a Morty to... _you know_. It's fucking hilarious, come see!" He grabbed Morty's hand instead but then stopped, giving him a quick look over. “Actually, hold that thought. You smell like fucking shit. Come here,” he pulled him along and out of the chamber, hardly acknowledging the way Morty limped and cried out. He took him back to the showers and urged him to hurry up, basically throwing him in the shower cubicle and washing him himself. He washed down his greasy, dirt caked hair and scrubbed away the layer of grime that coated his skin. He even washed his ass and mouth for him, seeing as dry vomit was building up on his lips.

E-661 reacted badly. It was like rape to him. He didn’t want to be in a shower, naked, with another male. He didn’t want someone else washing him either. But he accepted it, and accepted when he pulled him out of the shower and violently pulled him through the hallways again.

He brought him to the white torture room that only brought dread to his heart the moment he saw his blood and vomit still on the floor from the other day. There was more than last time, though. The floor was soaked with gore and other bodily fluids and it shook E-661 to his soul. _What had happened in here?_. Then he saw them; his family. The mix of Ricks and Mortys sat in a circle, all of them wrapped in chains and ropes, lying stark naked on the floor squirming and screaming with various wounds and welts covering their bodies.

When they saw E-661, most of them looked shocked to see the horrible state he was in but also relieved to see he was alive. One of them, Morty W-33B looked mad. He had a sneaking suspicion E-661 had given away their location, but he didn’t know for sure.

"Family reunion!" The president cheered, pushing E-661 forward. He fell to the floor with a groan, hardly bothering to even move.

"What happened to you?" The closest member whispered to his friend, concern lining his lips. This person wasn't a Morty. He was Malohi Afeaki, a Tongan boy that had joined the rebel group long before E-661. He had amber eyes, longish, wavy ginger hair and a scar down the middle of his face. He had tanned brown skin, lots of dark bunches of freckles decorating his cheeks, nose and forehead, and had a tribal turtle tattoo over his left shoulder. His nickname was Amber.

E-661 whimpered in response, “ _hell._ ” He was too sore and traumatised to speak.

Amber stared down at the floor.

"I bet you all are just dying to hear what's going to happen to you!" The president spoke, standing in the centre of his circle of victims. "Everyone here knows the horrible things I can and will do to you, but I'd just like to address something first." He turned to E-661 with a smile. "E-661 gave away your location."

The boy's heart skipped a beat. _What was he doing?_

The others started to get rowdy, anger becoming prominent in their voices. "You what?!" A Rick shouted. He was the leader of the rebel team. His dimension name was O-210, and he was an angry man with grey hair, no mono brow and tired eyes. He may have been a huge, fury filled old man, but deep down he was a softie. He never went out of his way to hurt Mortys. He wanted them to be safe, hence why he created a group of the poor and starving.

"No... I--" E-661 started, immediately cut off by the president.

"He told me without any hesitation. Even I thought his betrayal was so disgusting that I decided to keep him alive to suffer," he lied, smirking at E-661 in the corner of his eye. The boy was crying silently, trying his best to hold back the tears and sobs. He couldn't believe this. The president wanted his family to hate him. The moments he would suffer with them were to be in emotional pain.

"You traitor!" Amber screamed, thrashing in his bonds. E-661 felt disgraced to have someone who was like a brother to him, call him a traitor with such genuine hatred. "I thought you loved us?"

"He's lying--" E-661 started, before a louder voice cut him off.

"Shut up, E-661," the president snapped, sending a split second smile at him before addressing the rest of his speech to Morty's family. "As I've already told you all, you'll be kept here forever to suffer. Sorry, I don't make the rules--" _he does_ \-- ", it's just how things are." He slowly turned to look at O-210 and brandished a knife, approaching his victim as the rest started to get rowdy again.

"W-what are you doing?" O-210 stammered fretfully as the president approached.

"What do you think?" He stood above his victim, legs on either side of O-210's own legs. He ducked down and dragged the icy silver tip of the knife around the circumference of Rick's bare thigh, the blade getting dangerously close to his groin.

Rick's voice was trembling, too scared to move in his tight bonds. The cold metal against his warm skin sent signals of danger through his nerves, warning him to kick the enemy and run. But he couldn't dare make a move.

The knife left his skin and was raised in the air, before coming back down and driving deep into his groin. The blade obliterated a scrotum upon impact and it didn't stop stabbing repeatedly, hitting anywhere it could. The knife was plunged deep into his scrotum, cock and groin, annihilating the region and leaving it but a mess of gore and torn skin. Rick was screaming and thrashing violently, but the president was holding his chest with a spare hand, digging his nails into his skin from the inhuman grip he had on him.

"FUCKING STOP!" He begged as he screamed, tears pouring from his eyes as the most horrible agony wracked his frame. His entire body was burning with pain and his mind couldn't even keep track with what was happening to him. Some of his nails had chipped and peeled from his fingers as he violently slashed at the floor to escape the knife's sharp blade.

When everything in his groin was left mangled and bloody, the knife stopped stabbing. Rick didn't even notice it stopped. He was in so much pain that it still felt like a knife was digging into his flesh. Specks of blood painted the president's face in a morbid display, while a pool of scarlet formed under Rick's flailing body as his screams echoed around the room.

E-661's eye didn't escape the scene. He couldn't stop staring. O-210, his protector and saviour, had been brutally stabbed right in front his eyes and he couldn't do anything about it. His screams were like daggers to his ears, bringing him a deep emotional pain that no amount of therapy could fix. He caught the other Mortys crying and screaming but E-661 was silent. He had gone through too much and crying about something was the last of his priorities. Yet it always seemed to be the first when the president was cutting into his skin.

The president stepped up from the Rick's broken body, blood coating his hands and face. The liquid had drawn streaks of gore up his arm, but that only covered the drying gore from the past things he had been doing to them earlier on. He wiped away the blood on his face, but only smeared more on and made more of a mess. He smiled.

"That was fun," he commented nonchalantly. "Let's move on to the next person." He walked up behind a Morty, grabbing him and sitting him upright instead of sprawled out on the floor. The Morty was wearing a yellow shirt that was ripped in half as he always did. What he didn't usually have was the horrible burns on his chest and stomach. He was U-223, and it seemed the president had got to him yesterday. The boy was shaking, tears already pricking in his scared eyes. E-661 noticed the lack of fingers on both his friend's hands and cringed inwardly.

"How are you feeling today, U-223?" The president cooed, kneeling behind him with his body pressed against his back. His hands were kneading into his shoulders as he held his lips uncomfortably close to Morty's neck.

The boy growled, moving his neck away from the president's lips. The boy behind him just chuckled in response, grabbing his head and taking a bite of U-223's neck. His teeth sunk into the delicate flesh, drawing blood and a sharp scream from his victim’s throat. He bit down harder, sinking his teeth further into the skin and pulling away, taking a chunk of gore with him. Red strings of blood hung from U-223's neck and the president's blood-stained lips.

U-223 was breathing heavily, tears slipping down his cheeks as he tried to suppress his sobs.

"Oh, you taste so sweet..." He groaned, chewing on the flesh in his mouth. Blood seeped from his lips and he opened his mouth, the chewed chunk of skin on the tip of his tongue. He pulled back U-223's head and neck and pressed their lips together, smothering blood all over his lips. U-223 fell back because it was more comfortable to kiss someone without your head pulled back as far as it would go. The kiss still wasn't comfortable, anyway. The president pushed his tongue into the boy's mouth, pressing the mound of flesh onto U-223's tongue and pushing their lips together messily, saliva and blood smearing on both their faces. U-223 hated it. He was whining in distress into his lips, but his arms and legs were strapped to his body and if he tried to stop the kiss, well, anyone knew that worse would happen.

Finally, the kiss was stopped and the president pulled away, this time a string of saliva hanging between both their lips. He cut it with his tongue, letting the drool hang on his chin.

"That was nice." He wiped his chin and patted U-223 on the chin before travelling to his next victim.

Amber.

The boy immediately started to quiver and his eyes glistened with brewing tears as the president approached, but he remained seated on his forelegs and staring at the floor.

The president stood behind him, towering over him silently with piercing eyes staring him down. He dug his hand into his pocket and pulled out two black gloves, pulling it over his hands. The gloves looked more like a knight's gauntlet and had blades for fingers that looked incredibly intimidating. Luckily for Amber, he didn't see them and had no idea what was coming. But there was a catch, which was worse: knowing what was coming, or not knowing what was about to happen to you?

There was only one way to find out; listen to how loud Amber's screams were.

The president planted his shoe flat on Amber's back, pushing him to the floor with a forceful kick. Amber was lying on his arms and legs, but his head had smashed the ground roughly. He felt light-headed and groaned, trying to sit back up on his forelegs, before a hand pushed him back down to the ground. A sharp scream emitted from him as sharp claws dug into the soft skin on his back, drawing a stream of blood to dribble down his back. More claws sunk into his flesh, digging deep into his back. The hands were on either side of Amber's spine, the claws dangerously close to touching the vertebrae. Suddenly, Amber released a piercing screech as the claws inside him tore through the flesh and wrapped around his spine.

With a powerful tug, Amber's body threw itself forward, yet was still firmly held in the president's grasp. With another tug, a loud sound of snapping muscles and bone echoed around the room, followed by an even louder scream from Amber. The president kept pulling and tearing his hands through Amber's skin and flesh, quite literally pulling his spine out of his back. The yellowish hue of the vertebrae finally came into view as it was pulled out of the body, horribly disfiguring Amber in the process. His body nearly folded in on itself as he convulsed violently, blood flooding the floor beneath him.

The president pushed one of his hands against Amber's back to keep him still and kept tugging at the spine until the ribs and pelvis started to tear through the skin as well. The muscles connected to the spine were snapping with wet tears of flesh and squirts of gore, showering the president's face in specks of scarlet. Amber looked like a boneless meat bag now, his body slumped forward and his body slowly being torn apart. His entire back was tearing in two, the skin snapping apart into strings of gore. His ribs were starting to show as the president kept pulling, and even the pelvis was tearing through the lower half of his body, ripping his legs from his body.

The sounds Amber was making weren't human. They were simply disgusting gurgles and broken screams as he coughed and hacked up blood, the crimson liquid spilling from his lips in puddles of blood and staining his face and floor beneath him. His entire body was convulsing as his skeleton was slowly torn from his body, he couldn't even comprehend what he was feeling. He couldn't pass out or die of shock; he was just forced to suffer the pain while pissing and soiling himself in the process from the mere shock and pain of the event.

Before the carnage could ultimately kill Amber, the president stopped pulling and dropped the spine, letting the exposed skeleton drop to the floor as Amber's body sagged and fell to the floor, writhing madly. His shoulders had dislocated horribly and were sticking out in a disgusting manner, his chest looked completely caved in from the lack of ribs and his white eyes looked void of anything as he squirmed erratically.

" _Trophy kill_ ," he sneered, snarling like a feral animal to complete the reference. His mad eyes met with E-661's frightened eyes as he turned around, staring his next victim down.

"It's your turn, Mo Mo," he purred. E-661 cringed at the nickname. He didn't want his capturer calling him pet names. He'd rather be called a slut or something.

E-661 shook his head violently as the president approached. After watching what happened to Amber, E-661 knew the boy was absolutely insane and could literally do anything to anyone he wanted. He didn't want his skeleton to get torn out, he didn't want to get kissed or fucked. He didn't want anything from the president. He just wanted to fucking leave!

"You're gonna love this." E-661 had a feeling he's heard that before. The president wandered off to the racks of weapons and instead went to a metal cabinet, which opened to reveal shelves lined with tubs, bottles and cans of all different chemicals and what not. He pulled out something which E-661 couldn't recognise and then pulled out the box of matches that sat next to the bottle of whatever he had picked up. He went back to E-661, placing the bottle down and kneeling down next to the boy.

E-661 read the bottle. It was... lighter fluid. Oh no.

The president immediately grabbed E-661's arm and turned him into his stomach, holding his face down to the ground roughly as he finished the job with his other hand. He opened the bottle of lighter fluid and held it above E-661's backside before shoving the neck of the bottle into his ass, letting its contents spill into his anus. The coarse edges of the bottle spiked pain, but the feeling of the liquid going deep inside him was a mix of pleasure and fear. It was cold against his the walls of his anus and the veins that lined it and drove deep rumbles in his throat as his groin started to tingle.

The bottle was removed, his ass full of lighter fluid. Then, unexpectedly, he felt something else enter him. A finger slipped in and pushed inside him, playing, grabbing, massaging and rubbing the soft skin. His toes curled at the sudden pleasure that erupted in his body, his cheeks going bright red after. He couldn’t do this in front of his friends. He couldn’t do this at all! It was humiliating but his sick mind still enjoyed the sensation nonetheless. His soul left his body when he felt a wet tongue lick across his ass cheek.

"Ahhh," he gasped, his groin starting to tighten as blood rushed south. He didn't have a dick, but he was sure as hell getting aroused. His ass clenched around the finger as he attempted to control the pulsing sensation in his crotch.

Another two fingers inserted themselves played around a little more with the skin before sliding into his asshole, delving inside him. E-661 tried to suppress his moans and bit his lip until it bled. His face was an angry shade of red, heat engulfing his frail body. The blood travelling down to his crotch was starting to get unbearable. He needed to touch himself, but there was nothing _to_ touch.

The three fingers inside his asshole started to thrust, looking for a sweet spot. The president knew exactly where E-661 liked it; he was his alternative self after all. He knew where all Morty's buttons where and everything that turned him on. When they found the sweet spot, E-661 couldn't hold back the moan. He played with the spot a little more, grinning as he provoked shameful whines from the boy. Once again E-661 felt a tongue, just the moist, pick mucosa went right up in his ass this time, dancing around inside him and wetting the walls of his ass.

"Fuck... Stop..." He moaned, his hips starting to sway as he tried to hold back the urge to push himself deeper into the president's fingers. It was probably the first time he actually wanted to fight back and fuck the bastard. He loathed that he desired such perverted cravings.

The fingers were pushed in a few more times before being pulled out, E-661 cringing at the sound of lips sucking on fingers. He couldn't see what the president was doing, but he felt self-conscious by whatever he thought he was doing. Then he heard the sound of a match lighting and suddenly the feeling of arousal was slowly morphing into terror.

He could feel the heat of a small fire on his skin and just before he could make a move, he felt the match drop into his crack. The flame caught onto the lighter fluid and went ablaze, exploding in a flash of orange. The heat at first is what caused E-661's piercing screams; the scalding temperature of the fire against his skin was worse than having a blade slice through his flesh. The fire crept down inside him, the flames cooking the walls of muscle within his anus. The blaze ate at the skin of his ass as well, licking up the slicks of lighter fluid that coated the flesh. The epidermis was already starting to peel from the searing hot flames, flakes of skin hissing under the lethal embrace of the rising fire.

E-661 started to pull himself across the floor, chipping his nails as he tried to drag his heavy body forward. He was writing from the mere agony of the fiery assault, his legs violently shaking as the flames licked his muscles and burnt his sensitive pain receptors.

He could hear the president cackling over the horrible ringing in his ears and the hissing of flames. The stench of cooking skin was invading his nostrils and only making him sicker. Maybe puke could put out the flames...

Suddenly his body launched forward as a cold mist met with his behind. The flames seemed to die slowly as the hissing of fire went silent, but the burn still remained. The mist was cold against his skin, but it didn't reverse the damage the fire had already done. A heavy bang sounded behind E-661, making him jolt. He watched in the corner of his eye as a red canister of fire extinguisher rolled past and as it came to a stop when it got caught on its muzzle.

The president was still laughing and approached his victim, kneeling down next to him. E-661's legs were twitching erratically as he moaned in agony. The gases from the extinguisher were sending his skinless leg insane, bringing tears to E-661's dilated eye.

"Burn baby burn," he purred, smiling at the pained moans that left E-661's lips. He stood back up and glanced around the room, glaring at the Morty and Rick that hadn't had any 'fun time' yet. He looked back over to E-661 and sighed.

"You're coming with me," he stated, grabbing E-661's hair and pulling to his feet, wrapping an arm around his shoulder. He would leave the rest in the room. There wasn't much they could do. They were wrapped in ropes and straps, immobilising them completely. But anyway, no one could escape from the dungeon, bonded or not.

The president walked with E-661 into a separate room, a grimy room that resembled the torture room, just the walls were dark with only a few misty bulbs that hung from rusty wires lighting up the room. Also, there were way more bonds and other devices that looked kinkier than painful. He noticed the wall was lined with shelves of sex toys and other things that would cause both pain and sexual arousal, and E-661's entire body froze.

Oh. Oh no.

The president noticed his realisation as E-661 tugged away slightly.

"It's gonna be fun," he assured, giving the other a smile.

"Please, sir, I can't--"

"Shut up."

He went quiet.

"Good." He brought him to a pair of bonds that were connected to the floor. Even during all his squirming and struggling, the president managed to lock his wrist in the metal cuffs. Getting the cuffs around his ankles was harder with him kicking around and screaming at him, but the job was done eventually.

E-661 was laid out on the ground with his legs out and his arm above his head. He didn't stop thrashing around, even though his limbs were so tightly held down. He hated being confined, but in this room, it was even worse!

"P-please don't..." E-661 pleaded helplessly. The president left his side and came back with the tamest things E-661 had seen for days: a paintbrush and a bucket of red paint.

What, was he going to shove the paint brush up his ass?

The bucket was dropped beside E-661's torso and the president kneeled down, straddling the boy's hips. He sat on his forelegs and softly rested his crotch on E-661's own, smiling at the boy's reaction. He opened the bucket of paint and dipped the brush inside, then with another hand, started caressing his fingers down E-661's side.

E-661 was literally panicking. He didn't know what he was about to do to him with the paint. He was expecting something painful, something so horrible that he wouldn't be able to speak for weeks, something that would finally drive him to his breaking point.

But instead, the president lightly pressed the brush to E-661's stomach and brushed a curvy line upwards.

The feeling was soft and kind to his traumatised skin, sending tingles of pleasure through him as he finally felt like he could relax.

The brush started to brush different shapes and lines on to his chest, and E-661 didn't have it in him to worry about the future of his torture anymore. He felt calm and at peace, he felt pleased and happy. The tingles were starting to get to his groin, which only doubled with the weight of the president pressing down on him. The suited boy grinned again, obvious to the fact that E-661 was enjoying this a bit too much.

Other than the nice feeling of the brush or the warm sensation on his crotch, it was actually pleasing to stare at the president. He may have had a face that looked almost exactly like E-661's, but there was something about him. Other than him being a sadistic, greedy piece of shit that E-661 hated with every fibre of his being, he was hot. Maybe E-661 was just being narcissistic, but there was no way any Morty wouldn't think their president was a hottie. The suit and blood splattered across his face just really brought out the psycho bad boy in him and the scarlet of his eyes was absolutely stunning. He was a perfect evil genius. He was perfect in the worst ways possible.

E-661 hated him for that.

"Ah, that’s the first layer done," the president said, the bristles of the brush touching up one last spot. With a satisfied sigh, he gave E-661 a pat on the cheeks and stood up.

E-661 looked down at his chest, finding that the president had painted a blooming red rose on his torso. It was... beautiful. It was perfect. He loved it.

The paint still felt warm against his skin as the president picked up the bucket and put that and the brush back where they came from. He came back with a black pen-like device. The tip of the pen was red, but it definitely wasn't paint.

"Hold tight for me, okay?"

"Wh-why? What are you doing?" E-661 stammered, his past relaxation shifting into anxiety.

"Just try to not scream. This isn't supposed to hurt too much."

E-661 kept rambling random mutters and questions, his body getting tenser the closer the tip of the pen got to his chest. The president straddled his hips again, planting a hand down on his chest and away from the paint strokes so he could hold E-661's body steady. 

"Just stay still," he grumbled, pushing down rougher on his chest.

E-661, being the submissive boy he was, stopped struggling. His heavy breaths were still shaking his body slightly, but he even tried to stop breathing as well; anything to obey the president. 

"Good boy." The tip of the pen made contact with his skin and a loud hiss rang out, followed by a muffled grunt from E-661. The tip was scalding, explaining why it was literally red hot. The pen followed the paint strokes, morphing the beautiful red paint into lines of blood and burnt skin. E-661 remained still the entire time. It was agonising, though, but also arousing him slightly. He didn't know why the heat was both painful and pleasing, but honestly, it was better than just being in agony.

What is with the president burning him lately? He had a thing for fire and heat and especially liked to enforce it upon others. E-661 didn't appreciate it, he hated the heat.

"Nearly finished," the president assured him, weakening the push he had on the boy's chest.

The less tight the grip was the calmer E-661 felt. The pain was becoming tamer as he slowly got used to it, but the foremost thing that kept him calm was gazing into the president's eyes. He was watching what he was doing with precision and gentle eyes, so much that he didn't even look like a murderer anymore. He made sure every last line was done perfectly and he wiped away the blood with a delicate finger when the scarlet liquid attempted to drip from the burnt skin and ruin his work. E-661 pretended he wasn't branding him and just tried to convince himself that it was just a nice pleasant tattoo job that he was overreacting to.

It didn't help much. It just made him hornier.

The pen’s tip left the surface of his skin, the branding finally over. The president traced over his work with his thumb, wiping up blood and letting his finger trace inside the dip it left in E-661’s skin. It was like a valley of skin and blood, spiralling out into a beautiful blooming flower.

E-661 laid there with his head hung, staring at the branded rose on his torso. For some twisted reason, he loved it. It made him feel unique in a way; unique as a Morty. He didn’t know any other Mortys that had roses branded into them. He was already pretty unique without the flower, as well. With his pale blonde hair, pale skin and pale blue eyes, he was quite rare. He was like an endangered animal, and the president was a poacher. Then a thought hit him.

Was the president just obsessed with his rareness? The other Mortys he saw hanging up and that one in the bath didn’t look like the average Morty. The bath Morty had tanned skin, freckles and blue luscious locks. The ones that were hanging from their necks didn’t look normal, either. Even his rebel camp was full of unique Mortys and Ricks. Amber, O-210, U-223, and the other two as well were all uncommon.

He needed to know. The curiosity was getting to him. Was the president really just a poacher that wanted the skin of rare Mortys and Ricks? _Did it make him feel better about himself when he had rare specimens?_

“Sir—” he started, before the president interrupted him.

“—don’t call me that. Call me Mortimus or something.”

“Oh, uh, _Mortimus_ , do... do you... keep us because we’re rare?” The words were hard to produce and were mainly muttered, but he figured the president understood him with the expression that ghosted his face. He looked shocked, or maybe just surprised. His jaw hadn’t dropped to the floor or anything; he just seemed stunned that E-661 even asked something without being forced to.

“Why do you think that?”

“W-well, I’m rare. And you seem to...” _fuck, how does he put it?_ “... take a great interest in me. The other Mortys here are rare as well. So I kinda just assumed...”

Mortimus hummed lowly. “You’re not wrong.” He leant down, getting uncomfortably close to E-661’s face. He planted his hands on the floor either side of the boy’s head, gazing at him with impatient eyes.

E-661 pulled a nervous grimace. “W-were there any other... prisoners...while you were t-torturing me?”

The president chuckled, “yes. There’s plenty. I have loads of Mortys locked away. Why do you ask?”

Fuck. He felt embarrassed to ask, but he needed to know before his curiosity ate away at him.

“Are you... obsessed with me?”

Silence reigned. Mortimus stared intently, his breaths ghosting past E-661’s lips as he remained silent and unmoving.

“No.”

E-661 was the one to be silent next. He couldn’t tell if he was happy or sad by his answer. If he wasn’t obsessed, that meant he wouldn’t always got straight to him to torture, but, that was exactly what he _was_ doing. He didn’t believe Mortimus at all.

“Sorry for asking,” he said softly.

“Don’t be.” He reached one of his hands out and unlocked the cuff on his wrist. He sat up and moved to his legs, unlocking the ankle cuff as well. He helped E-661 up, wrapping a supportive arm around his shoulders.

“E-661, on a scale of one to an African child, how hungry are you right now?”

“I’m probably more of a North Korean citizen, honestly,” he joked along, voice hoarse. He was almost cringing at the fact he was conversing with his torturer. 

“I can tell. You look like a fucking stick.” He pulled him along, finally exiting the ‘kinky room’, as E-661 has decided to call it. He was glad the president hadn’t actually done anything too weird to him. He was pretty sure both body painting and branding were kinks, but it wasn’t sex or anything at least.

He was taken away from the torture room, the interrogation room, the cells, the corpse auditorium, the kinky room, the dark hallways, and was taken into a kitchen. The benches were made of gold and silver, lined with the necessary kitchen utensils and apparatuses. 

The president sat E-661 at the bench, slowly seating him on the golden stool and heading over to the fridge to get something for the starving boy. The president knew he had been starving long before he was brought here. He was a rebel, after all. They were all starving, homeless thugs that thought they were doing something good for their people. They all caused was harm and shoot outs in the middle of the streets, killing innocents along the way. Mortimus knew that E-661 had been responsible for a lot of deaths that he didn’t even know about.

“What’s the longest you haven’t eaten and when was it?” The president asked with his head almost completely shoved in the fridge.

It took E-661 a few seconds to realise the question was even asked. “Uh, two weeks or longer?” he said, obvious confusion in his voice. “This was before I joined the rebels. I was w-w-wandering the streets for ages and couldn’t find any f-food.”

“Uh huh, but when did you join the rebels?”

“Nearly two years ago.”

“And when was the second longest time you went without food?”

He was asking so many questions. “All the time,” he answered. “Sometimes the rebels can’t find anything and we don’t eat for a week.”

“And approximately how much do you get to eat when you do eat?”

“Scraps or stolen goods. They’re always quite small because A-7TT-- he’s the Rick that steals food for us-- can’t fit much in his pockets.”

Mortimus made a sound of acknowledgement and started to dig around in the fridge. He pulled out a container and a carton of milk, closing the fridge and placing the two items onto the bench. E-661 watched as the president made him a drink, pouring the milk half way into a golden cup and watering it down after. He slid the drink over to E-661.

“It’s going to taste like shit, but I don’t want you to puke everywhere.”

The boy nodded silently and put the edge of the cup to his lips, sipping at the solution with shaky hands. He hadn’t drunk from a cup for ages and some of the watered milk dribbled down his chin, but the rest was drunken from slowly. He knew that drinking it too fast wasn’t a good idea, the president said so himself anyway.

He didn’t expect Mortimus to lean over the bench and wipe the dribbled milk from his chin with a cloth, but it was appreciated.

Next, Mortimus started to make E-661’s meal. It wasn’t much, just some rice, or at least, something similar. E-661 could hardly tell what food was from Earth or if it was just an artificial remake. The president set up the stove and pulled a saucepan from the cupboards. The rice was cooked in a saucepan full of boiling water and then thrown into a silver bowl. From the cupboards the president got a sauce sachet and squeezed the condiment onto the rice, then proceeded to water down the meal. With the meal finished, he slid the bowl forward after shoving a spoon into the rice.

“Eat slowly.”

E-661 listened, spooning up the rice in small portions and making sure it was compressed well in his mouth. The president gave him the privacy he deserved, cooking up his own meal as E-661 ate. The boy had to ignore what he was doing because Mortimus was literally cooking up a human arm and chopping it into bits. It made E-661 sick to watch, so he just watched his rice instead, swirling his spoon in the sloppy food. When the arm started to cook, it smelt like pork and had a mouth-watering savoury to it. Knowing what he smelt was sickening to E-661, but it just smelt so good that he wanted it himself.

Mortimus ended up sitting next to him, poking a fork into the cooked human flesh. It looked like pork, smelt like pork, and as E-661 had discovered earlier; tasted like pork. It even sounded like pork. It broke apart in the president’s mouth as he chewed it, the squish of meat becoming the one prominent sound in E-661’s ears. He finished his rice quickly and slid it across the table, wanting to get away from the cannibal as fast as possible.

“Finished?” Mortimus tested. E-661 nodded in response. “Alright, go back to your cell. The guards cleaned it up again.”

E-661 stood up slowly, trembling as he tried to stay upright on his own two feet. He didn’t ask for the president to help him, expecting him to automatically help. Mortimus didn’t even acknowledge the other. He kept poking at his meal, looking like he was drifting off into his own daydream.

Whatever, E-661 didn’t need his help anyway. He stumbled all the way back to his own cell, tripping over multiple times and sitting in the middle of the hallway for a good minute as his legs strained to keep him standing. The guards locked the chamber’s doors when he entered. It was just like the first time it was cleaned, just there was a fresh bucket of water and a chair at the back of the chamber with a small portable light connected to the pages of the book resting on the sofa chair cushion. When he approached, he noticed the book was literally a thick magazine full of kinks and fetishes. He sighed and pushed it off, flopping down and sitting his ass on the chair. Fuck, his ass still hurt from before.

He was surprised that he was only hurt twice today. The president was going easy on him... or there was just something going on. He was still suspicious. He would sleep off the suspicion. Maybe Mortimus would torture the others for another day and leave him to rest. Honestly, he wanted the latter option, no matter how selfish it was. He couldn’t see the president’s face again for while, not after having twisted desires sparking in his mind.

He ended up falling asleep on the sofa chair.


	4. Day 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's E-661's birthday and Mortimus has a special surprise for him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you @axolotlthefish for being the beta of this smutty-fuck-fest of a chapter. ur the best!

  
E-661 was shaken awake, greeted with the smiling face of Mortimus as he shook his shoulders erratically to wake him. The sudden surprise made E-661 jolt and scream and then he quickly covered his mouth with his hand and was completely silent as his eyes were wide and locked in with Mortimus’ own.

“Good morning birthday boy!” He chirped, holding the arms of the chair as he towered over E-661’s curled frame. The boy had fallen asleep on the sofa chair with his knees up to his chest and his arm lying lazily to the side.

E-661 groggily mumbled something before trying to sit up without getting his face too close to the president’s. When he registered what Mortimus had said, he narrowed his eyes with confusion lining his lips. His birthday wasn’t the same as most Mortys. He was born prematurely; on the 29th week of his mother’s pregnancy. Most of his issues as a baby were fixed through surgery, but his impulsive nature and mix up with certain words remained. He always found it weird that he didn’t have a stutter like other Mortys, he honestly expected himself to have it worse than most. “How’d you know it was today?” He asked in a gruff voice, clearing his throat after.

“Duh, I have info on every Morty and Rick on the Citadel. I mean, most of us have the same data and what not, but I know everything about you, mister,” he poked his nose and backed away, giving E-661 space. He stretched his tired limbs and yawned, his backside remaining glued to the chair.

He felt violated that the president knew everything about everyone. That meant Mortimus knew about his dyscalculia and dysgraphia. He also knew about his retinopathy, his troubles with regulating his body temperature, his difficulty with breathing occasionally and also his slow weight gain. He knew _everything_. He didn’t like it. “Isn’t that a breach of privacy?”

“It isn’t anything, pal. Now shush, I gotta tell you something.” E-661 wasn’t going to say anything anyway. “I got you a birthday present, but, first I need to test something so I know you really deserve it.”

 _Test something?_ “Uh, cool!” He said timidly, a shy smile tugging at his lips. He stood up from the chair, his legs wobbling as he tried to hold himself up. A soft grunt left his throat as he steadied himself, looking up at the president for a little help.

“Do you need a hand?”

E-661 nodded in response.

The president sighed and instead crouched down and grabbed E-661’s ankle in a tight grasp. The boy jerked back a little, the grip painful on his swollen skin. He didn’t know what Mortimus was doing, but a familiar feeling rose in his ankle and before long, he noticed the pulsing sensation in his ankle was gone. He glanced down to view what the president was doing to him, noticing that the swollen blue bruise on his skin was gone. He assumed it was the nanobots, but was still puzzled why Mortimus had to touch him to complete the job. It only raised his suspicions with a certain thought that he could hardly get to sleep thinking about.

“Nanobots?” He tested. Mortimus looked up at him and nodded.

“Good memory. They pretty much flow through me. Also, it’s easier than using the stupid fucking remote.” He fixed the other ankle up using the same method, standing back up before E-661 ended up kicking him. The boy seemed a little too happy to have his legs back in good shape, well, other than his leg was _still_ skinned and the other had a gaping— albeit healing— hole in it from the shears. Even his skinned leg seemed to be healing… Kinda. The nanobots kept infections away so it didn’t get inflamed or sullied by pus, the nanobots were actually healing the skin day by day. It actually just looked like a thin leg, now.

“Don’t get any ideas, wise guy,” he warned with dark eyes, sending a glare of dominance at his inferior. “Follow me without running off somewhere.”

It felt weird to not have Mortimus holding him everywhere he went. It did raise escape plans and what not, but even an idiot would realise trying to run off was pointless. A guard would most likely find him and send him back to Mortimus. That would lead to horrible, horrible pain, in most cases.

Surprisingly, Mortimus took him to the kitchen first. He did the same as last time, just quicker and without a depressing scowl on his face. He boiled up rice, covered it in sauce and passed it to E-661 with a spoon. E-661 ate in silence as Mortimus just… Watched. Alright, yeah, it was very uncomfortable having Mortimus stare, but at least he blinked and glanced around sometimes. He wasn’t _completely_ fixated on E-661. When he finished, Mortimus took his hand again and took him back into the dungeons (E-661 still wondered why they were called dungeons. They were on the highest floor) and through the dark hallways.

When they both arrived at the shower room, Mortimus pulled him in and into the shower cubicle quite forcefully. He turned the shower on for E-661 but didn’t leave. E-661 was worried the president had gotten into a habit of cleaning Morty himself and grabbed his arm before he could grab the detachable shower head.

The president shot him a look.

“I thought showers were private?” E-661 snapped, not releasing the grip he had on Mortimus’ wrist. The suited boy chuckled.

“Right. I must have forgotten,” he said with a smirk, backing up as E-661 let go of his arm. He walked out of sight so E-661 could have his privacy. He cleaned up quick, not that he was very dirty in the first place. He planted his hand on the shower wall as he let the water pour over his head and wash out any remaining grime in his hair, taking deep breaths as the water ran down his face and slipped from his lips. In a moment of complete tranquillity and quiet, he hardly noticed the hands snaking around his waist. When he realised the warm fingers on his hips weren’t streaks of water, he immediately turned around and found himself pushed against the tiled wall as he did. His back and ass tingled from the cold sensation of the wall against his skin, finding his entire body had become increasingly chilly.

Mortimus had his hands around E-661’s waist; his black shirt and tie were bare from his torso. The shower was turned off, the droplets of water glistening on his chest. E-661 started to breathe heavily, mainly because Mortimus was actually hot without his shirt. His chest hair made him look older than he was, but his abs were definitely more defined than the average Morty’s. The average Morty age was in their late seventeens, so it was expected for them to have some kind of thing going on with their chests. But damn, Mortimus looked like a fucking athlete with his body.

E-661 took a gulp. He couldn’t fall in love with Mortimus. He was his torturer. He fucking fingered him without even asking for consent yesterday and tortured his family in front of him. Mortimus was the worst possible person E-661 would ever meet, but for some reason, he was growing a twisted liking for him.

“Remember I told you I was gonna test something? Well, here’s the test.” He moved his mouth to E-661’s neck, pushing his chin up with his head as he nibbled on the skin. E-661 heated up immediately, a rush of blood travelling downward as his delicate neck was massaged with trained teeth. A sharp grunt slipped past his lips as he held his chin up.

“Touch me.”

E-661 froze. “T-touch you?”

“Shove your hand into my pants and jack me off,” he ordered rashly, his lips brushed up against his collarbone.

“I-I can’t,” he muttered, voice quivering as his groin tingled from the pleasure. It was wrong; he couldn’t touch Mortimus after all days of torture. He wasn’t supposed to like Mortimus in any sort of way possible.

“Jack me off,” he pushed, biting at E-661’s sensitive skin.

When E-661 couldn’t make the move himself, Mortimus grabbed the boy’s wrist and pulled his hand down to his pants, letting his fingers fall lazily onto his belt. “Do it.”

E-661 gulped, feeling his lower body tighten as he undid the belt and threw it behind them. The president was praising him on, giving E-661 the sense of control that he never had before; especially with Mortimus. He reached for his pant’s fly and unzipped them, shoving his hands inside Mortimus’ boxers. He immediately felt the president’s erect member against his fingers, grasping it as Mortimus groaned into his collarbone. The vibrations through his body were fuel to his fire, sending his face a bright red as his groin pulsed with a warm sensation.

To make it easier for him to jerk him off, he pushed down Mortimus’ pants. He was hesitant about what he was doing, feeling that if he didn’t go through with it that he would be punished severely. He also slipped down Mortimus’ boxers to fully expose his cock, gasping softly as the other seemed to be biting quite roughly at his skin the more E-661 went along with the job.

He started to work at Mortimus’ cock, wrapping his fingers around him and slowly stroking, making sure his thumb rolled against the tip. The sounds Mortimus made were heavenly. Every groan, grunt and moan just aroused E-661 bit by bit, his hips starting to sway slightly as he held back the urge to fuck Mortimus to the floor. The moans weren’t the only thing keeping him heated. Mortimus nibbled on his collarbone as he stroked him, sucking at the skin and salivating warm drool over him with his tongue and lips.

The harder the bites were, the faster E-661 jerked him off. Mortimus changed his method of arousal, instead nibbling and biting at his neck in all the sweet spots. He followed the path with his tongue after, triggering all the sensitive nerves along the way. E-661 moaned, finally unable to take it anymore. With his mouth, he pulled Mortimus’ chin up and pressed his lips messily against Mortimus’ drool smothered pair, the two immediately starting a chaotic tongue battle and biting at each other’s lips. E-661 hardly even noticed when Mortimus healed his damaged gums and tongue with nanobots. They kept sloppily kissing until they needed to stop for air.

The president, however, needed to stop for more than air. He leaned against E-661’s frame, his head pressed to the crane of his neck as he clawed at E-661’s neck. “Fuck,” he groaned, his grip on E-661’s shoulder becoming tighter. “I’m gonna come...”

E-661 was waiting for those words. He could feel the stutter in Mortimus’ hips and the way he was desperately thrusting against E-661’s hand. In a final thought, he lifted his chin and locked their lips together again, just as he discharged a load of cum into E-661’s hand. A long moan was released into E-661’s mouth, the blissful noise sending a rush of blood south. He could feel the blood that was meant to flow through his penis slowly dribble down his legs. He ignored the feeling.

E-661 took his hand from the president’s pants, the warm cum making his hands feel sticky.

Mortimus glanced down, his face turning an even darker shade of red as he saw what he’d done. “Sorry,” he apologised softly. “I’ll take care of it.”

“It’s okay–” E-661 started, his words dropping dead on his tongue as Mortimus pulled E-661’s cum coated hand towards his own mouth. He almost stopped the boy, but when his tongue met with the sensitive surface of his hand, he simply just whined in bliss and grasped his fingers around Mortimus’ jaw from the sudden shudder of pleasure.

Mortimus made quick work of his own cum, licking the white fluid into his mouth and tickling the palm of E-661’s hand with his tongue. The semen tasted bitter but the taste hardly mattered to the president when he could listen to E-661 whine. Next, he nibbled at E-661’s fingers, letting the boy do what he wanted with his mouth as he pretty much begged him with wide, pleading eyes. E-661 took the offer, sliding his fingers into his mouth, savouring the moist feeling his lips and mouth were against his fingers. He ran them across his teeth and down to the back of his throat, smiling as the president gagged. _Fuck, that was hot._ He pressed his fingers against the boy’s tongue, whining quietly at the marvellous wet feeling against his digits. It was hard to tell who was liking it more. Mortimus was getting finger fucked in the mouth, moaning as he sucked and licked at the fingers, and E-661 was merely just enjoying the wet and messy manner of it. He felt Mortimus’ tongue slide between his fingers, wetting them with his warm saliva and thrusting right between the index and middle finger.

He continued to suck on E-661’s fingers, dribbles of saliva slipping from his parted lips as he kept his mouth wide for E-661 to play with.

That’s when reality came crashing down. E-661 pulled his fingers from Mortimus’ mouth with a gasp, the president literally whining like a dog as he begged for more. That’s it. That’s why E-661 pulled away so abruptly. The way Mortimus was begging, acting like a dog or a slave, behaving submissively when he really was as dominant as they came. He knew Mortimus was probably used to being dominant and he thought he was experimenting with E-661. Though, it still made E-661 feel powerful. It made him feel like he was a god. He could do what he wanted to Mortimus. He could hurt him, please him, fuck him senseless... It was all in his hands. He went still as the pieces of the puzzle came to together as E-661 finally realised what his birthday present was.

He had an entire day where he could do what he wanted to Mortimus. He was finally allowed to have a little fun. It excited him more than it should have.

“I figured out your little game,” E-661 said, looking down at Mortimus after finishing his daydream.

Mortimus’ submissive behaviour changed immediately, his dark eyes and smile stabbing him right in the heart. “Oh; really? Tell me then.”

“My present is an entire day where I can do whatever the fuck I want to you and not have to suffer the consequences.”

The president chuckled, nuzzling his face against E-661’s chest. “You’re smart.” He traced the red rose on E-661’s chest with a content smile. “Yes, that’s your present from me to you. Use it wisely; I don’t care how rough you are.”

E-661 was surprised he was right. He had so many things he wanted to force upon the president. He wanted to slice into his flesh and tear him apart. He also wanted to fuck him, but he’d worry about that later if he was horny enough. He didn’t know what to say, so he just grinned ear to ear instead.

“You look excited already. Take me where you want, birthday boy,” he purred, his sudden attitude reminding E-661 of a submissive female. Maybe he could just pretend Mortimus was a female. That would help make it less awkward. He was bisexual, but he found it more comfortable to fall for a girl. He could force Mortimus to dress like a woman; he could force him to do anything. He was almost jumping on the spot.

“First, I want your clothes. I can’t feel dominant if I’m fucking stark naked,” E-661 commanded, pushing Mortimus forward. The boy obliged instantly, beginning to remove his clothing and shoes with hesitation. E-661 may have asked him, but he wasn’t expecting him to do it so fast. The sight of his exposed cock was a punch straight to the gut when E-661 realised how fucking gay he was for himself. Mortimus handed the pants to E-661 with his head down.

He snatched them from his hands, pushing Mortimus again and sending him sprawling to the floor. He landed on his ass, his naked body a stature for E-661 to adore. He then slipped the pants and boxers on and clipped the belt on, relieved to feel the sensation of clothes on his skin again, although the fabric scratched painfully at his wounds. As he approached Mortimus, he stopped above him, realising that he had no idea how to be rough or dominant. He hated Mortimus, but he also wanted his dick inside him. There was no in-between.

He didn’t want to ruin the mood with his paranoid questions and just went with his gut, ducking down and grabbing Mortimus by the hair. He dragged him through the hallways, trying to block out the gasps of breath the president took as his head was held at an uncomfortable angle. He remembered where the torture room was, but just before he could actually go there, he stopped in his path. The kinky room, that’s where he needed to be.

He threw Mortimus into the kinky room, ambling on in there himself as he searched the shelves and cupboards for the thing that excited him the most. Mortimus was silent as E-661 searched, watching like a domestic dog as he sat on the floor staring at his master with begging eyes. E-661 almost gasped as he saw it: a collar and a silver chain. It was sitting in the cupboards, looking dusty from age. He took the collar and the chain that was attached to it, walking back over to Mortimus.

E-661 swore he saw the boy smile as he turned around. Nevertheless, he planted a foot on the president’s chest and ducked down, slipping the collar around his neck. He clipped it into place and stood up, chain in hand. As he tugged on it, Mortimus’ head followed. E-661 immediately felt aroused. He was like a dog; submissive and loyal.

What E-661 needed was to be dominant. He needed to have full control over his dog. He needed to be the owner he deserved. It took a lot of guts to find the right words, but when he remembered the past things he forced upon him, he snapped.

“Alright, bitch. Playtime starts now. You're my dog and you’ll act like one. I won’t be using your name; you don’t deserve to be called it. However, you will call me daddy and master. Got it?”

Mortimus whined like a dog, rubbing up against his owner’s leg. “Yes, master.”

“Good girl,” he purred. “If you upset your master, you’ll be punished severely,” he scolded, shaking a dismissive finger.

Mortimus nodded his head, licking up E-661’s leg. He reacted suddenly, kicking Mortimus like a stray. He whined, hanging his head.

“Only do that with my permission, slut.”

“Sorry, master.”

“You better be,” he growled, before his head cocked up at a lone thought. _Where was his family?_ He couldn’t have them listening in to whatever was happening. He walked to the doorway, poking his head out and peering down the dark hallway. The entrance to the torture room was just on the right. He glanced back over at Mortimus.

“Don’t move,” he demanded, smiling as the boy nodded. He walked from the room and headed to the torture room instead, stopping frozen as he noticed the lack of Ricks and Mortys lying on the floor. His family wasn’t there, but the blood was cleaned from the floor. The room was white again like it was before innocents were cut into pieces by the sadistic president. He assumed they were in cells and felt a pang of despair in his heart. He didn’t have time to check on them. Carrying on, he went back to the kinky room, only to stop frozen as well from the scene playing out before him.

Mortimus was lying on his back where E-661 left him, but his legs were spread and his hand was stroking at his erect cock as he bit his lip and suppressed the many moans that E-661 could see just trying to escape his lips. His face was red and flustered, his back was arched and his legs were shaking like he was on the verge of coming.

E-661 almost fucking busted a load just seeing him like that, but his dominant side took over and he stormed over to the boy, kicking him across the head. The second his foot collided with the side of Mortimus’ skull, the moan he was trying to stifle was released and he rolled to the side, holding his head.

“What do you think you’re doing, bitch?” he sneered.

Mortimus turned his head, looking up at E-661 with soft eyes that nearly made him rethink this whole ‘birthday present’ deal. “Am I being a naughty girl?” he purred, biting his lips. He crawled closer; exposing his bare backside as he sat sprawled out like a desperate slut. “Does daddy need to spank me?”

E-661’s words were caught on his tongue as his face went a bright red. Mortimus was meant to be his slave but at this point, it still felt like Mortimus was controlling him. He didn’t like the feeling at all. He wanted control. He needed control. He was not going to let Mortimus manipulate his feelings anymore.

E-661 leant down and combed his hand through Mortimus’ hair, gripping the strands tightly. He wanted to scold him for trying to control the session, but he said nothing. He was scolding him through looks alone. He was glaring at him like a dog owner that was mad at their pet. His eyebrows were furrowed and his lips were pulled into an angry scowl.

Mortimus did the ‘thing’ again. He whined like an upset dog and cowered away. The more he did it, the stronger E-661 felt. The grip he had on the boy’s hair got rougher as he tried to pull away. With a tug, he tore a few strands from his scalp as he lifted him up, E-661 standing the highest he could to the metal bonds hanging from the ceiling. He was shorter than Mortimus, but that didn't matter when he only had one arm. With silent eyes, he urged Mortimus to grab the handcuffs himself. Mortimus raised his shoulders slightly and his fingers brushed against the metal. He grabbed the handcuffs, pulling them down to lock himself in.

E-661 released the grip and Mortimus fell an inch, his wrists almost breaking from the force of the fall. His weight was holding him down, causing a painful tight strain as he was forced to hold himself up with his mere hands. The metal of the cuffs was digging into his skin, but honestly, Mortimus was liking the pain a little too much. When he tried to grab at the chain holding the cuffs so the strain wasn’t so rough on his skin, he felt a hand slap harshly against his backside. He released a stifled moan, letting go of the chain and having to endure the tight tension again.

E-661 wasn’t expecting the moan, but he remembered that pain to Mortimus in this session was only going to raise his dick higher. He went back over to the shelves and cupboards that lined the walls and looked for something he could pain Mortimus with, smiling as his eyes fell over a cat o’ nine tails. The whip almost seemed to stare back at him with gleaming eyes, screaming at him to use it. He wrapped his fingers around the handle, turning back to Mortimus with a cold grin. When the boy saw the whip in his hands, a twisted smile crossed his lips. E-661 was expecting fear, but kinky shit worked too.

He approached in the same way he watched Mortimus demonstrate many times before; slow and steady with his steps carving a sinister path before him.

Mortimus seemed to get more excited the closer E-661 was; the smile on his lips widening bit by bit. He was panting like a dog by the time E-661 actually got to him, his limbs seizing from the mere excitement that cascaded through him. E-661 planted his palms flat on Mortimus’ back, angling the whip correctly in his hands so he could deliver a painful blow. He flicked his wrist forward and whipped the tails against Mortimus’ back, emitting a piercing loud crack as it tore through the air. The nine tails met with Mortimus’ back with a disgustingly loud moist slap, followed by a gruff groan as Mortimus arched his back and moaned. The whip left nine separate red marks on his back, not deep enough to draw blood just yet. The sounds Mortimus made were orgasmic. He swung the whip again, making sure it was harder this time around. The nine tails met with back again with the same piercing sounds, cutting through his skin with ease. A splatter of blood erupted from his back as the whip pulled from his flesh. He kept hitting him again and again, more blood being drawn from his back as he slowly tore the skin apart with the cat o’ nine tails. Mortimus started to produce thick, deep screams as the pain even became too horrible for him to endure. His human nerves were still just as sensitive as they always were, wetting his eyes with tears as he tried to hold them back the best he could. He couldn’t show any weakness. He just couldn’t.

With one last blow, E-661 hit a nerve and Mortimus’ body flung forward with a sudden sharp sting of agony, an angry loud ‘pop’ following after as his shoulder joints popped from their sockets. His body slumped in the cuffs as his arms were held even more uncomfortably above his head, creating an even stronger and painful strain on his back and arms. Within seconds, a crack echoed around the room as his wrists finally broke under the intense pressure weighing him down. A dribble of blood slid down his arm as the bone disgustingly protruded from his skin in a bloody display. Mortimus’ body was in flaming agony, the heavy strain felt like it was slowly tearing his skin to shreds, but it would be hours until the skin actually tore.

E-661 dropped the whip to his side, cringing slightly as he heard the blood from the whip’s tail drip to the floor. Mortimus was breathing heavily, his breaths broken as his frame seemed to shake erratically in the air. His entire back was coated in fresh blood and huge gashes that decorated his skin in thick, scarlet streaks of gore.

He wasn’t finished. He picked up the cat o’ nine tails again and started to flog Mortimus’ bare ass with it, making sure to leave deep red marks on his backside. He didn’t give the boy a break. The whip cut into his flesh, drawing dribbles of blood as Mortimus cried out in pain. He couldn’t determine if he was feeling pain or pleasure. He wasn’t used to this. He wasn’t used to getting hurt by other people. If he ever felt like pain, he could hit himself. He would never cut himself, he would just insert pins into his abdomen or cut his limbs off, before re-growing them and starting all over again. There were many different things he did, none were like this. Flogging was a whole other story and for once he wanted the pain to stop. There wasn’t a safe word and he couldn’t show any weakness. It didn’t help that he told E-661 to be as rough as it wanted. If he tried to stop E-661, the boy would just think he was weak. He was not going to let that happen.

“Is this hurting you?”

Mortimus went still in his bonds. His ego was now the one at the wheel. The pain was just the annoying passenger that kept asking to drive, but his ego wasn’t giving up the wheel. His weakness was in the trunk. It had been kidnapped and was going to be thrown into the ocean. His ego didn’t want anyone to see his weaknesses.

“N-no,” he grunted; his voice hoarse.

E-661 was quiet. He walked around Mortimus to look at this face. The boy tried to cover his face, but there was nowhere to hide.

“Holy shit,” E-661 muttered, a cruel smile tugging at his lips. “You’re crying?” He laughed, his eyes wide and hysterical. He actually looked like a serial killer and it scared Mortimus. Well, it didn’t scare him, he didn’t feel fear, but there was just something nagging at him at the back of his head that there was something wrong with E-661. Something very wrong.

“I’m not crying,” he replied monotonously, even though his cheeks and eyes were red and puffy. There were literally tears slipping down his cheeks, but he just didn’t want E-661 to notice his weakness.

“Don’t lie to me,” he chided, leaning his face closer to Mortimus’. “Are you enjoying this?”

 _Don’t lie._ “No.”

“Good. Because I didn’t enjoy getting tortured either, except when I’m the one with the _whip._ ” He chuckled, leaning back away from Mortimus. “Alright, where’s the key for the handcuffs, I’m bored.”

Mortimus looked at the floor, trying his best to stop showing weakness. “They don’t have keys…”

“Then how the fuck do you get them off? Do I have to cut off your hands?”

“No!” He snapped, panic brimming in his voice and eyes. “Only I can unlock them. They’re DNA coded…”

“Then do it. Hurry up.”

Mortimus grunted; he couldn’t just unlock the cuffs. He’d fall and probably break more bones. But he brought himself into the mess so he would take himself out. He pulled himself up the cuffs, holding a finger to the DNA scanner on the cuff. It scanned it, unlocking and dropping Mortimus to the floor. He landed with a pained grunt, his dislodged shoulders almost completely disconnecting from his body as they hit the ground. The wounds on his back tingled with agony as they brushed against the floor, blood flooding the area beneath him as he writhed and squirmed in pain. He arched his back, groaning.

“Stop complaining, bitch.” He crouched down and straddled Mortimus’ hips, glaring at him with an eye that was void of any human emotion. The boy beneath him looked back at him with strained eyes, his pain obvious. E-661 leaned down, moving his hand up Mortimus’ chest until they were firm around his neck. His fingers started to tighten around his throat, the digits slowly sinking into the skin as Mortimus’ breathing started to grow ragged. Mortimus knew what he was trying to do and he was surprised E-661 even knew how to strangle someone. What he didn’t know was how to do it for the sexual arousal. The only thing the nanobots couldn’t fix was someone that’s been strangled to death.

It was obvious E-661 hadn’t been trying to make Mortimus aroused throughout the whole session. He just wanted him to suffer.

The grip only got tighter as the seconds passed. Mortimus’ breath was starting to get more irregular, his lungs struggling to get air in them as his chest raised quickly with convulsions. He was panicked about E-661 involuntarily killing him so breathing was becoming the most painful task of all. His neck was starting to ache as it was slowly crushed, breaths feeling like acid as they attempted to exit his mouth. As he tried to draw in a gulp of air, he found that he couldn’t. He tried to suck in anything but his throat was constricted too tightly. He gagged and spluttered, his neck starting to turn a faint purple as E-661’s hands were an angry red.

The unfortunate thing was that Mortimus couldn't pass out. The Nanobots just kept replenishing the air supply in his brain when it got deathly low, but he still couldn't breathe. His lungs would kill him before his brain did at this rate. E-661 had more of a chance of killing him, though, and that was a real problem for Mortimus.

Though, through his anger, E-661 realised that Mortimus wasn’t passing out and that something must have been causing it. He knew people went unconscious quickly while being strangled, but it had been a full minute and Mortimus didn’t seem to be getting weak.

E-661 changed his method of strangulation and did it properly. He held Mortimus’ neck tight so he couldn't breathe, teasing him by lightly releasing it but then immediately gripping it again. After the default amount of time it took a human to pass out, E-661 released the hold to let Mortimus breathe and shudder violently. His chest was convulsing as it tried to take desperate breaths, the air exiting his lips coming out broken and loud. This process went on for much too long. Mortimus felt like he was going braindead, not before the Nanobots replenished the air supply to his brain.

E-661 seemed to be enjoying it way too much. His eyes were wide and buggy; chuckles slipping past his lips as he watched Mortimus struggle and suffocate under his grasp. He was smiling ear to ear, his head shaking erratically from the mere excitement of the act.

When it was over, Mortimus definitely wanted to quit this whole ordeal. No matter how tough he tried to act, he crumbled easily under the hands of someone else.

“You had enough yet?” E-661 teased, slapping the boy across the face to grab his full attention. “Or are you a pussy?”

Mortimus gritted his teeth but knew he had to keep his promise and as well as his submissive persona. “I want more, daddy,” he managed to grunt through grit teeth, though he was obviously lying. The angry red welts covering his body were the first signs of his desire to quit being the submissive doll for such an angry, traumatised soul.

“Good girl,” he purred, caressing the president’s cheek and cupping his face. He stared into his eyes, almost as if he was contemplating something, and then pushed him away. He went to the cupboards, on the search for the cupboard with clothing. With the clothing found, he dug around for the suitable and ‘sexiest’ things he could find. Actually, he just wanted to find something that would make Mortimus the most uncomfortable. That was _easy_ to find.

He pulled out a double thronged G-string, but to make it worse, it was meant for gay men, meaning the entire ‘ass region’ wasn’t covered. E-661 didn’t want to know why Mortimus owned the clothes and just hoped it was only to humiliate his victims, as nasty as that sounded.

He also pulled out a pair of fishnet stockings and a bra, the lingerie was all thrown to the floor next to Mortimus as E-661 towered over him with a sickening grin. “Put it on.”

Mortimus, as much as he didn’t want to wear it, nodded and started to change into the lingerie. It was extremely hard to put on with dislocated shoulders and broken wrists. First, he slipped the stockings on and the bra. With E-661 watching him so intently, he found it hard to put the G-string on without feeling uncomfortable but managed to get it on anyway. He sat on the floor with his knees up, waiting for E-661’s next demand.

“Now you actually look like a girl, other than your dick hanging out like that.” It was true; the G-string didn’t support his cock very well. It didn’t help that he had a boner, either. “Doesn’t matter,” E-661 concluded, moving back to the shelves of tools and toys again.

As original as it may have been, he picked up a scalpel and tucked it in his pocket. Before he could choose anything else, he had a rather evil idea. He found a blindfold and made haste of putting it around Mortimus’ eyes, grinning as he noticed the way Mortimus immediately grew more anxious. He could see it in his body language. His lips were quivering, as well as his toes and legs. They were bouncing erratically from the panic his body was going through.

E-661 pulled a vibrator from the shelves of sex toys, followed by something that was known as the Heretic’s Fork. He’d seen it before in medieval documentaries. It was sharp on both sides, restricting the wearer from moving their head down into a comfortable position. It also stopped them from talking, which was exactly something he wanted for Mortimus. It would make screaming more painful for him, which was for sure.

Mortimus had no idea what was coming. E-661 set the fork up, locking the collar around his neck and making sure the fork itself was steady. Next, he pushed Mortimus to the ground, laughing as Mortimus yelped in pain as the fork jabbed into his chest and chin. The boy was forced into a quad position with his ass in the air, whimpering as the fork’s ends dug into his skin and drew blood. The way he had to hold his head on the floor was painful since the fork was quite literally impaling deep inside his jaw and chest. Fuck, it was agonising. He couldn’t even make proper sounds of pain because his mouth was locked shut.

Next, something was pushed into his ass. He knew what it was since it was vibrating. It was at a high level and it immediately made him moan. He pressed his legs together, biting his lip as tears poured from his eyes and stained the blindfold. The pain... It wasn’t the worst, but it was horrible. The vibrator was pushed dangerously deep inside him, his entire lower body vibrating from the inside. He could feel his cock pulsing with pleasure but when he tried to moan, all he could feel was pain as the fork jabbed at his skin.

E-661 pulled him back by his hair, relieving some of the pain in his chest and chin. The bottom fork had almost completely impaled itself inside his chest but pulled out as E-661 held his head high. If he as simply opened his jaw, he’d get stabbed in both his chest and jaw. Maybe talking was the last of his options... Unless E-661 talked to him. Oh no.

“Does it feel good?” E-661 asked with an obvious shit-eating grin on his face.

Mortimus tried nodding instead of talking but still felt pain. And no, he didn’t like it, he was lying.

E-661 knew he was lying. He didn’t care. “Good girl.” He flipped the boy over forcefully, which resulted in a fuck-ton of agony for Mortimus. Not only did the fork jab at him again, but the deep lacerations on his back and ass were rubbed against the floor, creating a painful and uncomfortable sensation across his entire body. The vibrator made quick work at blocking out the pain, but it actually just made a weird mix of feelings that confused him.

E-661 took out the scalpel and pressed the tip against Mortimus’ chest, carving a light line into his skin. He kept carving more cuts into his skin, slowly cutting a word onto his chest. Before long, the word _‘Whore’_ was carved into his chest. The cuts were red, but they didn’t bleed too much and make a mess of his skin.

E-661 wasn’t finished his work, though. He made sure every last _inch_ of his front was covered in words of _blood._ E-661 was a slow and messy writer. Mortimus’ neck ended up having ‘slave’ written into it, his midriff had many different words written into it, such as ‘slut’, ‘pig’ and ‘suck me’, followed by an arrow pointing down to his groin. Even small love hearts were drawn around, but they were possibly the only tame things on him. His inner thighs had ‘lick here’ and more hearts carved into them and his limbs had ‘needy cunt’ and other profanities on them. Nearly his entire body was covered in messy, red words and a horrible, pulsing agony.

Mortimus almost went numb halfway through the process. The scalpel was so sharp against his skin, creating a stinging agony after a word was finished. The more there was, the worse the pain got. He knew straight up that E-661 was carving words into him. He couldn’t see it, but E-661 had a habit of saying what he was writing out loud. He tried to block out the outside world by telling himself the pain wasn’t even that bad and he was just overreacting. It did help, but not enough. He decided to just dream instead.

He thought about E-661. Suddenly, that little, skinny milky white _cunt_ had turned into a nightmare inside his head. The boy needed a name. He wasn’t a Morty anymore, just like Mortimus. He deserved something other than his dimension tag. _Maybe Demon would work... No, no, that was stupid._ He needed something that suited him, something that suited them both... What had blonde hair and blue eyes that suited such an evil governor like Mortimus?

 _Aryan._ That was it, that’s his name. Aryan, Hitler’s master race, the blonde haired, blue eyed race that Hitler thought were perfect.

“Aryan,” he spoke softly, trying his best to speak with the fork jabbing into his jaw.

E-661 stopped what he was doing, glancing down at him. _Why was he speaking!?_ “What?” He seethed, grabbing the boy’s hair and bringing his face closer to his own.

“Your name... It’s Aryan.”

E-661 narrowed his eyes in confusion. “I’m Morty. What are you talking about?”

Mortimus chuckled through the pain, E-661’s confusion still always making him laugh. “Blonde hair, blue eyes and a perfect face shape. You’re my Aryan...”

In an instant, E-661 realised what he meant. He had heard about them in a book before. The Aryans were Hitler’s master race. He felt like Mortimus’ slave, so honestly, the name worked. But did he really want to be called that?

“We’ll discuss this after,” he ordered, pushing Mortmus’ face to the ground. The boy groaned in pain, arching his back to try and lighten the force of the fork. E-661 held his face hard against the rough ground then stood up, smashing his foot hard against the back of Mortimus’ head. His nose was the first thing to break, the appendage snapping completely and squirting out a rush of blood. E-661 stomped on his head again, smiling wide as Mortimus moaned in pain. The fork was impaled deep in his chest and jaw, the sharp ends literally protruding from the bed of his mouth. Not only the fork caused damage, the floor itself scrapped against the skin of his face, causing a light bleeding but a whole lot of stinging pain.

  
Again and again, E-661 kicked his head until blood was coating the floor in a horrid display of mutilated skin. Mortimus could feel it— feel the way his exposed flesh writhed with agony. Croaks of pain left his lips as he attempted to even breathe properly; cringing as he heard E-661 cackling like a madman from above. He could hardly hear him through the loud ringing in his ears. Blood was rushing through his broken nose, making it impossible for him to breathe through the organ. However, since both his nasal and oral cavity was full of his own blood, he started to choke and suffocate. He couldn’t breathe.

As he hacked up gore and sobbed in agony, E-661 couldn’t help but feel bad. He wasn’t a psychopath like Mortimus, so he definitely felt guilt and anxiety about the situation. He hated Mortimus but… He didn’t want to hurt him too much. But he _did._ It was this constant fucking battle raging inside his head whether he should keep making Mortimus suffer or just _stop._ The way Mortimus was just coughing and spewing up blood was disgusting and the deep lacerations in his skin were starting to crust over and create a horrifying scene. E-661 could hardly even look at him and the last thing he wanted to see was what he had done to his face. He still hadn’t seen the damage and honestly, he was scared to see.

Maybe… Just maybe, he could stop hurting him. Humiliation was just as bad as pain, just it didn’t have that physical ache. E-661 couldn’t stand watching his mutilated frame anymore.

He needed to get out more anger out, though. It was still boiled up inside him, ready to explode and drive him mad during the process. He knew the longer he bottled up his anger, the worse his mind would rot. If he had too much in him, the day he let it out would be the day he _cracked._ He had much more anger than just the things Mortimus did to him. He was angry because of the bullies that tormented him as a kid, the way his Rick left him to die on the Citadel, the fact that he was even fucking born. He was angry at _Rick._ All Ricks. Every Rick was worse than Mortimus.

Alright, so he definitely needed to get a little more anger out.

He crouched down and grabbed Mortimus’ hair, inwardly cringing from the feeling of the sticky blood that was clung to it. When he pulled his face to inspect the damage he had done, he gagged at the sight. His face was covered in angry, red abrasions. Some were just bleeding cuts along his skin, but some were just patches of severely damaged skin; now just left a bright pink. The tears that slipped past the blindfold just made the wounds sting more, but at this point Mortimus couldn’t stop himself from crying.

“You look like shit,” E-661 muttered, grimacing. The broken nose was also disgusting. It was turned on its side, completely broken and spilling blood profusely.  
  
  
There were few places E-661 hadn’t damaged, one of those being Mortimus’ legs. He supposed as the last torture; he’d ruin his legs. He wasn’t sure how, until he remembered the torture room existed. E-661 quickly scurried off to the torture room, knowing that Mortimus wouldn’t move from his slack position on the floor.

Mortimus definitely didn't move. He made a promise to E-661 that he could do what he wanted, so he wouldn’t dare stop him. That and the fact the vibrator had quite literally numbed him with pleasure. The pain was starting to become just a simple buzzing sensation in the back of his mind, now he was just focused on the precum he could feel leaking from him. He tried to hold back whimpers but the sensation in his groin was too much. Biting his lips suppressed _many_ shameful noises he wished to produce.

E-661 came back with a hacksaw. Not that Mortimus knew that. He had no idea E-661 was even in the room until he walked closer. He shrunk down, still biting his lip.

Once again, the boy’s face was pushed to the floor, his ass in the air and the Heretic’s fork digging back into previous wounds. He felt E-661 pulling at the fishnet stockings, realising he was cutting through the fabric with _something_. Of course, that something was a hacksaw, but Mortimus had no clue. Whatever E-661 was doing, he took too long to actually do what he was leading up to. Mortimus was left there, the vibrations becoming the only feeling in his body as his lower region tightened and blood rushed south frantically. Fuck, if he didn’t feel pain soon, he would literally come himself. He clenched his eyes shut, feeling his toes curl as his cock threatened to release.

“Hurt me,” he murmured softly, pushing his face into the floor.

E-661 hardly even heard him. He glanced up, sneering. “You're not the one pulling the strings here, bitch.” As he pressed the jagged blade of the hacksaw to Mortimus’ calf, the boy released a sudden moan.

He finally came. The pleasure had got to him before E-661 could even start what he was doing. His face flushed red in shame, tears slipping from his eyes and drenching the black fabric of the blindfold an even darker shade.

E-661 was confused, honestly. He wasn’t expecting Mortimus to moan like that, especially when all he did was press the hacksaw against his calf. It took him a moment to realise what had actually happened and he honestly blushed as well.

“Did… Did you just come?” He asked rather childishly, losing his cruel demeanour almost instantly.

Mortimus whined in response, too ashamed to even speak. However, it was obvious by the way he was acting that indeed something had happened that made him uncomfortable.

“Oh, oh f-fuck—” E-661 stammered, dropping the hacksaw to his side. “I didn’t actually want you to do _that._ ” He really didn’t. Sure, he did shove a vibrator up his ass on the highest setting, but he thought the pain would have stopped it from happening. Honestly, the only reason he didn’t want Mortimus to come wasn’t that he was trying to deny his orgasms, he just didn’t want to deal with an erection or just the fact that Mortimus probably felt sexually violated. E-661 had the right to take revenge, but he still felt guilty.

“Sorry, you weren’t m-meant to,” he apologised, dropping the hacksaw as he nervously fiddled with his fingers. _Fuck, why was he suddenly worrying so much? All he did was come! He did it before—_ he mentally slapped himself. He wanted to finish what he was doing, but he couldn’t bring himself to pick the hacksaw up again. He should just call it quits. He wasn’t sick like Mortimus; he wasn’t finding sexual pleasure in hurting him. Revenge felt good, sure, but not when all you could do was stress and feel guilty.

Mortimus knew the boy was hesitating. _They always do._ No other Morty had ever hurt him as much as E-661 did; especially not a Morticia or Jessica, either. He didn’t want E-661 to stop just because he was feeling guilty. That just made Mortimus feel worse.

“Don’t stop,” he simply muttered, clawing at the floor as he bundled his hands into fists, no matter how painful it was with his broken wrists. “Don’t worry about the guilt…”

E-661 shook his head. “I can’t just push the guilt away.” With a sigh and an inward cringe, he pulled the vibrator out of Mortimus’ ass and dropped it to the floor. He sat Mortimus down so he didn’t have to be in such an uncomfortable position anymore and took the Heretic’s Fork and collar from his neck.

“Aryan… No, don’t let me stop you—” the boy stopped him from talking with a prolonged hush and a finger against his lips.

“Just be glad it’s over— wait, did you call me Aryan?” If he was being completely honest, he _did_ like the name. He didn’t have to feel like a Morty when he said it, which was a definite plus. “Keep calling me that,” he ordered, yet, he didn’t say it in the cruel tone he had been using before. It was a simple request.

Mortimus nodded. He could feel the pain again and started to shift uncomfortably in place, grunting softly. E-661 noticed his discomfort and pulled him close, knowing that Mortimus would be the last person to find unease in a torturer comforting him.

Even though he was in pain, he didn’t heal his wounds. He needed permission first, but he wouldn’t ask for it.

Aryan inspected his wounds, hating himself for the damage he had caused. Mortimus wasn’t this bad to him. _Or maybe he was._ Maybe E-661 was just blinded by lust; too short-sighted to see past his Stockholm syndrome. Perhaps Mortimus was absolutely horrible to him, probably the worst ever, but Aryan couldn’t recognise that. He knew Mortimus was a terrible person, but he couldn’t even remember what was so bad in the first place that made him hate him.

He really needed to remove the blindfold. “I’m going to take off the blindfold, okay?” When Mortimus nodded in acknowledgement, he reached around the back of Mortimus’ head and loosened it, taking it from his head. The boy reacted harshly to the lights in the room, but his eyes went straight to Aryan’s. He seemed to find comfort staring into Aryan’s eyes and his body fell slack as he could finally relax.

They actually sat like that for a while. Mortimus reverted his eyes to the floor but Aryan just stared into the distance, combing a hand almost subconsciously through the boy’s hair. E-661 realised Mortimus needed permission to heal his wounds eventually, seeing as the nanobots weren’t doing anything except making him bleed, and bleed, and _bleed._

“You can heal your wounds now,” Aryan stated, glancing down at Mortimus’ blood-soaked mop of hair.

Mortimus didn’t hesitate. The nanobots came alive in a flash of blue, his skin fusing together where the welts and gashes were and any other bruise and abrasion being healed as well. The nanobots fixed his shoulder and wrists, using a digital template of Mortimus to actually fix the broken bones and dislocated joints. Even the words that were carved into his skin were gone, and to say the least, Aryan was glad. Those words weren’t something Mortimus deserved to have on his skin.

Though his wounds were healed, his mind definitely wasn’t. Aryan could see it in his eyes as he glanced up at him; they were tormented.

It was at that moment that Aryan realised Mortimus was just as broken as him. He was weak, taking out his anger out on others to make himself seem strong when he really was just a scared boy trying to survive in a universe full of torment and suffering. Mortimus was just like glass, able to be broken with the lightest of touches. Such a fragile being had to be treated with care, no matter how horrible and deserving of pain they were.

Aryan went to say something or apologise at least, but Mortimus had other plans. He stood up without saying a word, heading to leave the room but stopping at the doorway. He turned to face Aryan, who was now standing up as well, staring at him with a soft gaze.

When Mortimus didn’t say anything, Aryan did instead. “Do you want me to help you relax?” He offered, holding his hand on his waist.

Mortimus didn’t say anything. He knew he had shown his weaknesses; he’d shown way too much. If Aryan knew how weak he was, the boy could use him easily.

“Mortimus, seriously. Do you need aftercare or not?” He could notice Mortimus’ interests spiked at that.

“I mean, I guess I’d appreciate it,” he replied with a slightly quivering voice, acting the most nervous E-661 had even seen him. He really did break easily.

Aryan approached and urged the boy forward, following as Mortimus headed to his office instead of the cell room. Mortimus seemed to be keeping his distance even though he knew Aryan was probably going to touch him _a lot_ in an estimate of two minutes. Why was Mortimus estimating stuff? Probably because he was nervous. He was never nervous. He didn’t even know if what he feeling _was_ even anything to do with feeling nervous. Emotions were hard when he spent all his life copying them from normal people.

He took him into the bedroom, since it was probably the only room suitable for comforting business. The room was full of gold with polished, timber-resembling walls. The bed was 100% made for sex, there was no doubt about it. It was big enough to hold three people, the frame was made of gold but the blankets were red velvet. Feeling that soft, silky material on your skin while getting fucked would probably make it double the fun. Even the lights in the room were dim and steamy, and honestly, the bedroom looked more like a love shack than an actual bedroom for sleep. Aryan had a feeling Mortimus didn't need sleep and that this room really was only for fucking. He didn’t want to fuck right now, so he hoped it just stayed as a bedroom for the time being.

Mortimus kinda just stopped at the doorway, though, almost as if he was frozen with shock or something. Aryan must have really done something bad if someone like Mortimus wasn’t even able to cope. There were many things Aryan didn’t know about him; like his past and whatnot, so he assumed it just had something to do with that.

“You good?” He tested, grabbing the boy’s shoulder gently. Mortimus didn’t react much to the touch.

“Yeah, sorry. I’ve just… Never done this before,” he responded, still staring at the bed while his body quivered slightly.

Aryan chuckled, “no one’s ever tried to comfort you before?” Even though he was joking, he felt his heart sink when Mortimus glanced back at him and nodded. “Oh, seriously?” _That explains a lot_ The poor thing hadn’t even been comforted in his life. Maybe that also had a reason, but it was still pretty sad.

“Well, Amber used to try and calm me down a lot. So, I’ll do what I can.” He grabbed the boy’s hand and brought him to the bed, letting him lie down first before following along. He laid down next to him, his back against the bedhead. Mortimus quickly pulled the blankets over himself, holding his head under there as if he was trying to do something.

Aryan’s eyes glanced over at him and he cocked a brow. _What was he doing?_ Soon, Mortimus took his head from the blankets and laid back, his hands still under the sheets. E-661 could see the sheets bobbing up and down, and by Mortimus’ stifled moan, he knew what he was doing.

“What the fuck-- seriously?”

Mortimus glanced over at him with a sly smirk. Alright, the fucker was playing him. He should have known. “Oh shut up. You shoved a vibrator up my ass. The least you could do is put up with me jacking off,” he bit back, though, rather playfully. Aryan rolled his eye and turned away, ignoring his stemming arousal as he listened to Mortimus moan next to him.

Alright, he would have much rathered being in a cell right about now.

Aryan assumed he didn’t finish the job, especially when Mortimus started to urge the other out of bed. He was pushing him, telling him to “get up” and “move”. E-661 obliged, thinking that Mortimus just wanted some alone time until he pushed him up against the wall with his back facing Mortimus. Fuck, he forgot how it felt to be vulnerable.

“Give me back my pants,” he ordered, letting E-661 have a small amount of space so he could actually proceed with the order.

“Y-yeah! Of course,” Aryan stuttered, loosening the belt and slipping both the pants and undergarments down. He stepped out of them and kicked them towards Mortimus, cringing as he felt Mortimus’ erect member against his ass.

Mortimus didn’t go any further. He grabbed his clothes and sat on the edge of the bed, pulling off the bra and fishnet stockings before he noticed Aryan staring _directly_ at his dick.

He chuckled lightly, glancing down at his own length and then looking back up at Aryan. "Do you wanna suck my dick or something?"

The boy’s eyes widened in shock. "N-no!"

"Come on, we're two naked men in a bedroom. Why else would you be staring at my dick?"

Aryan blushed, though, he blushed deeper as he felt a warm dribble down his legs. Blood. There was blood. He had almost forgotten about the blood that was meant to make his dick erect.

"O-oh shit," he stumbled on his words, embarrassed. He felt like a girl who forgot a tampon. _Would Mortimus get angry if he stained the floor?_ "I'm disgusting, oh god—"

"Don't say that," Mortimus snapped, glaring at him. "Though, if you feel uncomfortable here, you have every right to shower and go back to your cell."

Aryan looked down at himself. Fuck, he probably needed to shower, but he really wanted to get rid of the sexual tension creeping through his bones. But the thing was, he didn't want to engage in any sexual acts with Mortimus. He just spent two hours forcing him to feel unimaginable pain. _However_ , the least he could do in return was please him.

"Do you want your dick sucked or nah?" Aryan quizzed out of the blue, trying his best to ignore the blood dribbling down his inner thighs.

Mortimus blushed lightly, looking rather flustered. "I, uh—"

Aryan knew that would get to him. It doesn’t bother him when he’s the one asking the question, but when Aryan asks, it’s like being asked to smash your nuts with a hammer. "Yes or no. It's a simple question."

The boy bit his lip, obviously unsure. "Kinda...?"

Aryan rolled his eyes. _Obviously_ Mortimus had no idea what he wanted. When he started to walk out to prove a point, Mortimus finally spoke up.

"Yes..." Aryan turned around as Mortimus spoke. "But seriously, if you don't want to, that's fine. I'm not forcing you to."

_Ha, consent? Aryan didn't think Mortimus knew what that was._

“No, you deserve something after two hours of torture.” _He never gave you anything, why should you be nice?_ He dismissed the thought. He wanted to help because he knew he wasn’t cruel like Mortimus.

Mortimus looked down at the floor. He looked guilty almost, but that wasn’t _mentally_ possible. He felt something though; one of those feelings definitely being arousal as Aryan slowly approached. The boy kneeled in front of him, spreading Mortimus’ legs with his hand. He glanced up at Mortimus who looked away the second they made eye contact. Aryan… Had never blown a dude before. He was only eighteen and had been living in a city full of himself for _years_. All he had to fuck was the millions of _‘himselves’_ that populated the Citadel, but he still never actually did it. He felt too young to actually touch another Morty.

Surely sucking a dick wasn’t that hard. It was like giving a hand job but with your mouth, _right?_ Fuck.

“I’ve never given anyone a blowjob before,” he admitted, squeezing absentmindedly at Mortimus’ thigh.

“You can still stop if you don’t want to—”

“No,” Aryan interrupted. “It’ll make me feel better about torturing you. Not everyone is emotionless like you, y’know.”

Mortimus bit his lip, sighing. “Okay, I just wanted to make sure you were comfortable with doing it.”

“Just stop worrying and let me take away the stress,” he consoled, dragging his fingers up the other’s inner thigh and prodding at sensitive skin near his groin. He was simply just titillating him first so he could gain the guts to touch his lips to Mortimus’ cock.

It took a lot of hesitation but he eventually slipped his lips over the tip of his dick, taking in a small portion of his length. The taste, to say the least, was quite bitter. Mortimus immediately seized and leaked slightly, releasing a stifled moan. He looked like he wanted to pull at Aryan’s fluffy hair, so the boy put Mortimus’ hands flat on the bed and urged him to keep them there.

He worked at the underside of Mortimus’ dick with his tongue, slowly pressing his mouth further onto him. He could hear every last sound Mortimus made. He glanced at the boy, grinning at his reaction. His face was flushed, staring at the ceiling as he tried to hold back moans. That only resulted in him making small growls of pleasure, the sounds rumbling in his throat like an engine. The fact that he couldn’t move his hands just made it worse for him; his hands pushed so roughly into the mattress that the sheets completely engulfed them.

It didn’t take too long to get used to. Soon enough, Aryan was bobbing his head up and down, brushing his lips against Mortimus’ dick, licking the sides and sucking on the tip as if it were a jawbreaker. The taller boy was still glued to the bed, panting and sweating as his entire body was filled with pure bliss. He had moaned many times from not being able to stifle them from the way Aryan licked him, his hands now completely white from being clenched so tightly.

“F-fuck,” he groaned, daring to take a glance down at Aryan. The sight of him sucking his dick was really fucking hot. He felt his toes curl as he got closer to releasing.

He had already been leaking precum the entire time. The taste was bitter but for some reason, it was satisfying to lick up; probably because Aryan had a boner, honestly. He didn’t want the whole lot squirted into his mouth without warning though. He took his lips from Mortimus’ dick and glanced up at him.

“How close are you?”

Mortimus bit his lip, breathing heavily. “ _Very_.”

“Good.” He took in Mortimus’ length again, this time with more expertise. He almost choked on his dick a few times from pressing too far down but the sensation of vomiting made him both sick and horny. He continued to make himself gag, pushing himself down Mortimus the furthest he could and triggering every last erogenous nerve on his cock.

With a moan and buck, Mortimus came inside Aryan’s mouth, coating the back of his mouth with a layer of cum. Aryan almost choked on the cum, pulling away from Mortimus. The taller boy was flustered and panting, staring up at the ceiling as he could finally relax his strained body. E-661 cupped his jaw and pulled his face down so they made eye contact. Then, slowly, he swallowed the cum in his mouth.

“You taste bitter,” he seethed, pushing the boy’s face away so he could wipe the rest of the cum from his lips. Mortimus gasped lightly, combing a hand through his sweaty hair as he panted lightly.

“Yeah, _thanks_ ,” Mortimus scoffed. “By the way, happy birthday, Aryan. I hope you liked your presents.” There was snide in his tone as he glared at the other.

Aryan rolled his eyes. “Fuck you.” He turned to leave but stopped. “Also, one more thing. Can I have some goddamn clothes?”

Mortimus looked like he was glued to the bed, still incredibly flustered. “Yeah, yeah, fine. It’s the least I can do to repay you.” Without even dressing himself, he pushed himself from the bed, looking rather weak in the legs, and opened the drawer of clothing. He pulled out a pair of boxers, approached Aryan, and held them out for him with a cocked brow.

“Really? It gets cold down there.”

Mortimus’ expression went stern.

“Fine! God,” he muttered, snatching the boxers from him. “And to think I gave you a blowjob. You’re a prick, Mortimus. _Goodnight_.” Once again he turned around but he left the room for good this time around. He didn’t even glance back to see Mortimus’ expression. He knew the boy would have been glaring at him with a smile.

He was far from wrong.


	5. Day 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mortimus comes back after two days. He's acting weird, then he does something that not even the naive and ignorant Aryan can forgive him for.

He didn't see Mortimus the next day. After a day of being dominant and entering the first day of adulthood, everything felt bland. He didn't have to stress about taxes and being more responsible about things, he still felt like a kid. He still felt like Mortimus’ plaything as well. Here he was, locked in a cell with no bars, just black walls and black floors. All he could do was read that kinky magazine and learn a thing or two, nap on the chair, sleep and try to make noise to block out the deafening ring of the silence. Why was the silence so _loud?_

 

The day Mortimus did come back was strange, to say the least. He came in quietly and politely, holding a hand out for Aryan to take. The boy took his hand and let him take him away from the silence and the foreboding walls of darkness. He took him into the shower room-- as he usually did-- and turned on the shower for him. He sat outside so Aryan could have privacy. The privacy didn’t help much; E-661 was still horny just from being naked with Mortimus outside. Since he was allowed boxers (though, he wasn’t showering with them on, obviously), taking them off just felt like he was stripping for Mortimus. As he washed, blood kept dribbling down his leg, which just led to more _'kinky'_ thoughts and more blood. Fuck. He couldn’t get clean. He couldn’t just walk around _bleeding_.

 

“M-Mortimus?” He stammered, turning his back to the shower wall.

 

“Yeah?”

 

“U-uh, I… Can’t get the blood off… I can’t stop bleeding.” He was ashamed to say it because he knew Mortimus would know _why._

 

Mortimus sighed, standing up. Aryan blushed and only bled more as Mortimus approached him. His black shirt and grey trousers got drenched with water, but he didn’t mind. He pushed Aryan against the wall, staring him in the eyes. E-661 felt his knees buckle as Mortimus brushed a hand against his groin.

 

“W-what are you doing?” He seethed through gritted teeth, narrowing his eyes as the pleasure got more intense.

 

“I’m fixing you up, don’t stress out.” He wasn’t lying. A blue glow emitted from his fingers as the nanobots worked their job, healing the skin of Aryan’s crotch. Now that the severed dorsal veins were covered, he shouldn’t just bleed out. Though they still didn’t have a dick to pump blood into so Mortimus had no idea where that was lead up to. He hadn’t really done this before because he let the others just bleed in their chambers as he played loud porn videos over the speakers in there.

 

He took his hand away, washing the blood from his hand with the water and then sitting back outside the shower.

 

Aryan got the rest of the blood out and couldn’t help himself from touching his crotch. There was nothing there but _pubes_ , gross. He turned the shower off and unexpectedly Mortimus handed him a towel. He hadn’t actually given him one before. It didn’t seem like a big thing, but it was for Aryan. _Why the hell was Mortimus being so tame?_ The boy quickly dried himself off and put his boxers back on, letting Mortimus grab his hand again to take him to the kitchen.

 

Rice with sauce was served again. Mortimus this time didn’t stare at him creepily. He sat next to Aryan, resting his head on his arms as he stared at the wall instead. He closed his eyes as he waited for Aryan to finish, almost falling asleep on the table. E-661 tapped him to let him know he was done. The younger boy took his face out of his arms and glanced over at him, before standing up without saying a word and dragging Aryan back into the dungeons.

 

Aryan was worried. After absolutely ruining Mortimus the other day, maybe he was just pretending to be nice so he could have his revenge. His worries became possible as Mortimus led him into the torture room. In a panic, he tried to walk back as Mortimus pushed him along, but the other was much stronger. He wasn’t purposely trying to hurt him; he was just making sure Aryan didn’t run off.

 

“Calm down, Aryan. I’m not going to hurt you,” he assured him, glancing at him with soft eyes. Aryan didn’t believe him.

 

“Why do you have to hurt me? Just leave me in m-my cell, please,” he blurted in fear, still trying to pull himself back. Mortimus tightened the grip on his wrist until it hurt.

 

“I just fucking said I wasn’t going to hurt you. Stop panicking.” He tugged forcefully at his arm and Aryan grunted from the rough ache it left on his skin.

 

“Please-- don’t rape me. Just let me go…”

 

 _Oh_. Now Mortimus understood why he was panicking. “I’m not going to rape you. Please, just calm down before I accidentally end up pulling your arm off.”

 

Aryan stopped trying to pull himself from Mortimus' grasp. He didn’t calm down too much as tears were still brimming in his eyes. He let Mortimus take him where he wanted, which was to one of the tables in the literal centre of the room. It looked like a gurney, or a surgical table. That thought made his stomach sink in fear.

 

He started crying, though he did it silently. Tears slipped down his cheeks as his breaths got more choked. Mortimus realised this and loosened the grip he had on Aryan’s wrist.

 

“W-what are you gonna do to me?” He asked through gritted teeth and tears, glancing into Mortimus’ scarlet, emotionless eyes with his own sad, icy blue pair.

 

Mortimus sighed and pulled him close, wrapping his arms around him in a hug. Aryan jolted in surprise, shaking fearfully in his arms. Mortimus didn’t do anything weird. He just hugged him. He didn’t stab him in the back, bite him, lick him, or pull down his boxers. He just… Hugged. Aryan sunk into the hug, feeling his heart rate calming down from the warmth Mortimus gave off. He dug his face into the crane of Mortimus’ neck, wiping his tears on his skin that he was sure Mortimus wouldn’t mind. He also returned the hug, holding Mortimus’ back almost protectively as he relaxed.

 

“I won’t hurt you. I promise,” Mortimus whispered softly, nuzzling into Aryan before pulling him away. He gave him a small peck on the forehead, smiling as Aryan nodded. He looked much happier. Good.

 

He helped the boy onto the surgical table, laying him down carefully. He didn’t wrap the bonds around him which definitely made Aryan more calm, but he still thought of all the bad reasons why he wasn’t bonded. He worried that Mortimus would paralyze him something; maybe even amputate all his limbs. He shook the thought away. Mortimus said he wouldn’t hurt him. He promised.

 

Watching what Mortimus did next reminded Aryan of those medical TV shows. He wrapped something around his hand that was connected to something under the table. The tube that conjoined the two objects was full of a liquid that was pumping into Aryan’s system via a needle. He couldn’t feel the needle, let alone did he even know what was pumping through the tube. It was general anaesthesia so the boy could be put into a medically induced coma so he didn’t have to watch and feel what Mortimus was going to do to him.

 

“Count back from ten,” Mortimus said softly, carefully pushing Aryan’s blonde hair out of his face.

 

The boy nodded and counted in his head.

 

10, 9, 8, 7, 6, 5-- and then he slipped into unconsciousness.

 

(--------------------------)

 

It was as soon as he woke that he knew something dramatic had changed in his body. He could it, this strange, light tingling on the lower half of his body. Something was different and he didn’t like it. At first, he hoped Mortimus had given him his dick back or something, but that didn’t feel like one. Not only did he feel shaved, but he felt… Wrong.

 

He glanced over at Mortimus, who happened to be staring at him with a newfound interest. He looked concerned, even. But Aryan knew Mortimus was never concerned.

 

“How do you feel?” He asked, the question immediately being answered by a panicked grunt from E-661.

 

Aryan’s breathing increased and he scowled angrily. “What the hell did you do to me?”

 

“Just a little surgery,” he replied nonchalantly, pointing down at Aryan’s lower half with his eyes. The boy sat up slightly to see what he was looking at, noticing that he still had his boxers on. But with the boxers meant he couldn’t see what Mortimus had done, so he was still left in the dark.

 

He didn’t like being left in the dark, not like this. There was something wrong with his body and he had every right to know what it was.

 

“Tell me what you did!” He snapped; glad there were no bonds holding him down. He sat up, glaring at Mortimus with his fist raised and ready to deck the president right across the face. He’d hold it back though, since it would only cause trouble but at least it would calm him down.

 

“Do you _really_ want to know?”

 

“Yes!” Of course he did!

 

“Fine. Let me help you down.”

 

“No, I can do it myself.” With the frustrated mutters of Mortimus, Aryan lifted himself up and put his feet on the ground, immediately feeling weak and light headed. Mortimus went to go grab him, but it was too late. Aryan sneaked a look in his boxers to see what was wrong with him, and nearly threw up at the sight.

 

He… he had a vagina.

 

It was this wave of confusion and panic that hit him, sending him dizzy and stumbling. Mortimus tried to catch him but he needed to sit down. He needed… he needed time to think. He fell to his knees and sat down on his ass, holding his head between his legs as he panicked with heavy, deep breaths. He felt like crying. He was going to cry. He did cry. He couldn’t deal with the stress; it was too much for him. His body had been changed without consent-- actually; his entire gender had been changed. Suddenly, he wasn’t a guy. He felt like a guy, he’d been a guy his whole life, but now… _What was he?_

 

Some sort of gender hybrid? Unisex? Did he have a uterus? Could he get pregnant? He started panicking at the thoughts crossing his mind. _Did Mortimus want to make me some sort of baby maker?! Did he want to have my babies because he’s a sick fuck?!_

 

In his panic, he didn’t notice Mortimus kneeling in front of him. He was too busy staring at the floor with eyes full of tears; hell, he could hardly even see the floor through his tears. Everything was blurry: his head, his vision, his mind and his gender. Nothing was right. He had a gender dysphasia battle being raged within the thin walls of his crumbling mind, and it was driving him insane.

 

“Calm down, Aryan. It's just a little change, no biggie."

 

 _No biggie?_ His entire mindset had to change. He didn't even know what he was. He was confused and distressed, and if Mortimus got any closer, he'd definitely get a donkey kick right to the gut.

 

“I fucking hate you,” he seethed, glaring at Mortimus with an angry eye. The boy looked back at him with a small smile, looking empathic for him. E-661 didn’t need his pity. He seemed unaffected by the insult. He already knew E-661 hated him, it was pretty obvious anyway.

“I know you do. But you still gotta try to calm down.”

 

A feral growl tore from Aryan’s throat in a bout of anger, and he savagely jumped at Mortimus and threw him to the floor. Mortimus held a hand to Aryan's chest but it was too late before he realised how pointless that move was. A fist came down and knocked Mortimus right across the face, leaving a red mark as he grunted from the sudden pain in his jaw. It wasn’t a powerful punch, but it still wasn’t appreciated.

 

“FUCK YOU!” Aryan roared, ready to punch him again. As Mortimus held the site of impact with the hand he should have been using to hold Aryan’s wrist with, the boy started to punch his chest. His fists were weak against his chest, simply just drum beats against his skin. He didn’t want the boy to know how weak he was.

 

Actually, because he was so weak, he let the boy punch all of his anger out of him

 

Soon, when Aryan was tired, he just started crying instead and just weakly slapped his hand onto Mortimus’ chest. That was the finishing point for the president. As Aryan hung his head and sobbed weakly, Mortimus crawled out from under him and sat up, keeping his distance.

 

“Do you want some more time to punch out your feelings?” Mortimus tested, still staring nonchalantly at the boy.

 

The more Aryan thought about it, the more confused he became. And not the whole gender thing, of course that was bothering him, but the whole thing Mortimus was playing. That boy was not right today. He was actually… Calm. In most cases, if Aryan tried punching him, Mortimus would probably pull his finger bones out with tweezers or something. But in this case, Mortimus was saying he was fine if he wanted to punch him. Why wasn't he acting like his usual asshole self?

 

"Why... Why did you do it?" He changed his question from the second he said 'why', deciding against pointing out how calm Mortimus was.

 

"The surgery? I was just bored with you having nothing so I guess I gave you something," he replied nonchalantly, shrugging as if it were nothing. To him, it was nothing. He didn't know what it was like to have everything about himself changed in an instant.

 

"But why didn't you just give me back my penis? Why... This?"

 

Mortimus sighed again. He really wanted the boy to calm down. "Just stop asking questions. It'll stop bothering you if you try and relax."

 

"Stop telling me to relax!" Aryan snapped again, moving his body away from Mortimus as he tried to reach out for him.

 

"Aryan, I'm trying to help you. Please just let me help you."

 

The boy went still. His words sounded so genuine that he actually had second thoughts about pulling himself away from Mortimus. Before he could jump away, Mortimus had a grip on his wrist. He started panicking, knowing that Mortimus was probably trying to hurt him. He winced and expected a punch, but instead felt his hand being slowly raised and his fingertips being brushed against soft skin.

 

He glanced back up, noticing Mortimus had placed Aryan's fingers to his jaw. What was he doing?

 

"Just let me try and help you, okay?" Mortimus had concern in his eyes, or maybe just honesty. Whatever it was, Aryan fell for it immediately, melting into the touch. He was still stressed, scared and upset, but Mortimus was right. He needed to focus his mind on something else. He needed to fixate on something, and if he wasn't mistaken, Mortimus had gladly taken that place. He was now his distraction. It didn't seem right.

 

"Here," he started, bringing E-661's fingers to his mouth and softly brushing his lips over the fingertips. He was actually letting Aryan shove his fingers in his mouth again. E-661 didn't know if he wanted to, but he took the offer anyway, slowly slipping his fingers into Mortimus' mouth. He felt warmth in his body as Mortimus already started to suck at his digits, brushing his tongue over them to give Aryan soft tingles. Mortimus' scarlet eyes were shut, until he opened them again, staring directly into E-661's pale blue eyes.

 

Aryan softly moaned, blushing afterwards from releasing such a shameful noise. He glanced away with his fingers still in Mortimus' mouth, until the suited boy took them out. He entwined their fingers, still licking Aryan's digits.

 

"You wanna do something else?" Mortimus asked, giving a concerned look over at Aryan. The boy nodded, still embarrassed. He regained the courage to look back at Mortimus, but he still felt hate and fear in his gut. He was still shaking slightly and the sight of Mortimus made him want to cry.

 

As Aryan kind of just sat there silently, too timid to speak up, Mortimus started to brush soft fingertips onto E-661's palm. He traced the palm lines and then caressed his arm in soft strokes as well.

 

The feeling was fantastic and rather ticklish but Aryan kept quiet. He didn't want to show Mortimus anything.

 

Finally, the president sighed and stopped the pointless caressing. He cupped Aryan's face, surprised that the boy didn't try and pull away as he did. Mortimus looked into his eyes, and E-661 saw honesty and kindness. It wasn't normal… It wasn't right. But Aryan didn't want to look away.

 

"Do you wanna dom?" He asked softly, Aryan's face still cupped within his hands.

 

E-661 hesitated, feeling his cheeks flush as he stammered with mumbled words. He could feel his heart racing and he bit his lip, staring back at Mortimus.

 

He nodded.

 

"Alright," Mortimus concurred, starting to remove his black shirt.

 

Aryan watched on silently, his heart still pumping fast and hard against his chest. Mortimus removed his pants, but before he could tug his boxers off, Aryan stopped him. He decided to answer the question on Mortimus' lips.

 

“I don’t want to get too physical,” he admitted, taking deep breaths. The other acknowledged his boundaries with a nod and laid down, ready for Aryan to straddle him. The boy crawled over and sat his legs on either side of Mortimus’ body, pressing himself against Mortimus’ groin. The boy immediately tensed up, biting his lip. He started grinding against him to hear Mortimus groan under him, feeling his own groin tingle and warm up from the growing pleasure.

 

Once he was getting in the mood of things, he grinded harder and faster, clenching his eyes shut as he listened to Mortimus whine. He leaned down, planting his hands on either side of Mortimus’ head as he pressed himself against the boy’s groin. In an effort to drown the anxious thoughts he still had, he pressed his lips to Mortimus’ in a sloppy kiss. He could feel the light caresses of Mortimus’ hand across his ribs and stomach, which was immediately followed by Aryan releasing a soft giggle and feeling his body hairs stand on end. Mortimus moved the soft touches to the undersides of the boy’s arms, and Aryan had to break the kiss to laugh. The touches tickled and made his limbs twitch from the feeling.

 

Mortimus noticed what he was doing and continued it, realising that this was the only thing making Aryan smile. Soft fingers brushed over the sensitive skin on Aryan’s body, making him twitch, giggle and grin. The boy clenched his eyes shut as he laughed, trying his best to suppress the sounds he was making.

 

“M-Mortimus, s-stohop,” he laughed, trying to pull away Mortimus hands to no avail.

 

“You might wanna speak up a little,” he teased, working his fingers up Aryan’s side. He jabbed his thumbs into his hips, grinning as Aryan erupted into laughter.

 

“M-MORTIMUS! P-PLEHEASE!” He shouted playfully, squirming. His face was flustered as tears of happiness ran down his cheeks. He was almost ashamed of being tickled at his age and by _who was_ tickling him, but the joy that he hadn’t felt in years was more powerful than any of his negative emotions.

 

“Please what?” Mortimus chuckled, brushing his fingers over Aryan’s shoulder blades.

 

He burst into giggles again, falling against Mortimus to try and trap his arms to the floor. Mortimus, however, got an arm free and jabbed his fingers into Aryan’s sides then moved his lips up to the crook of the boy’s neck, blowing a raspberry into his skin. A paroxysm of writhing followed after, Aryan pressing his face into Mortimus’ shoulder as he laughed into his skin; trying to suppress the sounds.

 

“P-PLEHEASE STOP!” He shouted, the words muffled by Mortimus’ arm. He took his lips from Aryan’s neck, breathing lightly on the sensitive skin of the boy’s ear. He shivered, nudging his face closer to Mortimus.

 

“Spread your legs for me,” he whispered, nibbling softly at the lobe of Aryan’s ear. The boy obliged, slowly spreading his legs out for Mortimus. Aryan had suddenly become submissive, though he agreed to be dominant. Mortimus never lasted when he was submissive, anyway. He was more of a pussy than he seemed.

 

With his legs spread, he slightly arched his back, allowing Mortimus to have his other hand back. This hand travelled up his sides to make him giggle and twitch slightly, while his other hand slipped under the waistband of Aryan's boxers. The boy could feel his hand on his midriff as it sneaked into his undergarments, his body tensing up from both anxiety and pleasure. He didn't want to get too physical, but now that Mortimus was planning something, Aryan wanted it bad.

 

The president's hand found itself in E-661's boxers; his finger slipping into his perineum. Aryan bucked into him with a groan, his muscles tightening as his taint was prodded. Mortimus played with the sensitive skin, testing to see if Aryan was ticklish there. He was. He giggled and bucked as he moaned and bit into Mortimus’ shoulder to try and block out the feel is coursing through him. He didn't know whether to be aroused or jovial, so he chose both sides and played along with Mortimus' game.

 

"A-ah, Mortimus... F-fuhuck," he groaned, biting down onto Mortimus' shoulder hard until his teeth sunk into the flesh. The thick taste of iron wasn't acknowledged. Sharp grunts emitted from him as Mortimus kept thrusting his finger into his taint; Aryan starting to push down on his finger as he went. It was like getting fingered in the ass; just nothing really went inside him. It tickled, so it had that extra arousal to it.

 

Mortimus moaned as Aryan said his name, his finger moving to the lips of E-661’s cunt. The boy immediately bucked violently and groaned in displeasure, frightened by the sudden feeling. The pleasure was different and completely new to him and he could hardly tell if what he was feeling even was pleasure.

 

“Sorry,” Mortimus grunted, pulling his hand from Aryan’s boxers. “Sorry, sorry--”

 

“No...” E-661 bit his lips, feeling a tight strain in his lower region. “I-- I want you to fuck me,” he confessed, blushing profusely as he stared at the floor in shame.

 

Mortimus glanced up at him with a cocked brow, questioning his wishes. "Are you sure you're ready?"

 

The boy nodded, still in a flustered state. "I want it."

 

"Then I'll do whatever I can to please you." With a quick motion, he slipped out from under Aryan and stood up, helping the other boy to his feet. "We're going upstairs for this. Better a bed than the floor.” He grabbed the boy’s hand and led him out of the room, through the hallways and finally past the set of doors that were the gateway to 'freedom'. Aryan was taken to Mortimus’ bedroom once again; the room made of red velvet, gold, and polished timber. This time, Aryan got more agitated by the sight of the lovemaking bed because he knew exactly what was going to happen.

 

Mortimus brought Aryan to the bed and carefully laid the boy down, before hopping on himself. He made sure Aryan had his head on the pillow and elevated so he could see the things Mortimus was gonna do to him. Slowly, he pulled down Aryan's boxers and threw them to the floor, purring as E-661 was finally bare of clothing.

 

Aryan could see it: his vagina. It was disgusting to see on him, to say the least. The shaven, pink lips on his groin were an intruder and he didn't like it. He hoped whatever Mortimus was going to do would help change his mind.

 

"I gotta warm you up first, baby," Mortimus said, dragging a finger down the boy's inner thigh. "If I pushed in now, it would hurt."

 

Aryan thought Mortimus always wanted to hurt him, but the change was appreciated. He tensed as he felt fingers touch his cunt lips, watching as Mortimus rubbed at him. The president sat at Aryan's legs, pulling them up and onto his shoulders so he could reach him. He separated the lips with his tongue, pushing it gently inside. E-661 grunted, his toes curling at the sudden intrusion. Fuck, it felt so good but felt so bad. He couldn't decide what it was.

 

Mortimus pushed his tongue in deep, keeping eye contact with Aryan to check if he was in pain. With his free hand, Mortimus caressed Aryan's pale body, squeezing at the flesh as he pulled his tongue out. Instead, he pushed his finger in, slowly getting it deep inside him before pulling it out again. He pushed it back in and continued this process. Aryan groaned, biting his lip.

 

Mortimus kept up the ministrations, slowly finger fucking him in his cunt as he stared him in the eyes. Aryan kept eye contact as well, his face flustered as he tried to suppress the many moans that threatened to leave his lips. Occasionally he glanced downwards; feeling incredibly aroused as he watched what Mortimus did to him.

 

Soon, Mortimus chuckled as Aryan felt his pussy release something wet, and Mortimus pulled his finger out with a smirk. "You're wet," he commented, wiping the fluid on his lips. "You're definitely ready for sex, but I wanna stretch you out a little further." He pushed a finger at the lips of Aryan's cunt again, but this time he pushed in with two digits. The pleasure was doubled and Aryan moaned, rutting into Mortimus' fingers. He felt so wet and dirty down there and his legs felt weak from the pleasure. Soon, a third finger was added and Aryan felt like his body was about to collapse.

 

“Oh, f-fuck, Mortimus,” he moaned, curving his body as the ache of pleasure made his groin pump with pure bliss. Mortimus took Aryan’s legs off his shoulders and leaned forward as he fingered him, pressing soft lips against Aryan’s mouth. E-661 sunk into the kiss, reaching an arm around Mortimus to pull him closer. As Mortimus slipped his tongue into Aryan’s mouth, the boy sucked on his tongue, relishing the way his saliva felt against his own tongue. He didn’t even care that Mortimus was tongue fucking him before, it just made it more disgustingly hot.

 

When Mortimus rubbed his thumb against his clit, Aryan bucked his hips and released a lengthy moan. The feeling was fucking incredible. A wave of ecstasy coursed through his veins and he bit Mortimus’ lip to try and cope with the pulsing pleasure in his groin.

 

Mortimus broke the kiss, licking up the trail of saliva between their lips. “You’re so hot like this, baby,” Mortimus admired, looking down at Aryan’s flushed face. He pushed his three fingers as far as he could inside Aryan and thrust at his g-spot, smiling as he felt E-661 cum onto his fingers. He pulled his fingers out; making sure the other could see the white fluid on his digits. With precision, he sucked on his own fingers and moaned, licking the cum off while keeping complete eye contact with Aryan.

 

Mortimus was just teasing him at this point. "Fuck me already," Aryan begged, arching his back as he felt more wet fluids leak from his pussy. He needed to touch himself but he didn’t know if Mortimus would let him, let alone did he want to touch _it_ anyway.

 

“I need a little more encouragement than that, sweetie,” he purred, basically asking Aryan to beg for him. Aryan didn’t hesitate to beg.

 

He moaned and writhed, curving his body like a desperate slut as he stared into Mortimus’ eyes with icy blue, needy eyes. “Oh, fuck me, Mortimus. I want your cock inside me. Please just fuck me!” He begged, dragging his words on like moans as his lithe body squirmed under Mortimus. He looked so aggravated; so needy and desperate. It turned Mortimus on.

 

Mortimus hastily removed his boxers and threw them aside, grabbing Aryan’s shoulders and flipping the pair around. With Aryan now on top, cowgirling the other, he planted his hands on the bed either side of Mortimus’ head, panting softly as he looked down at Mortimus’ flushed face. He could feel the boy’s hard cock against his midriff so he started to get rowdy again, begging Mortimus to fuck him.

 

“Just gimme a second, I need to lube up.” Instead of pulling lube from the bedside table, he sunk his teeth into his own hand. He pushed his teeth in deep until blood was drawn; the scarlet liquid dripping down his hand and arm. When there was enough blood, he rubbed his hands together, smothering the liquid all over. He stroked at his cock to lube it with the blood, groaning at the pleasure his dick finally felt after being held captive in his pants for so long.

 

Aryan didn’t even care about the blood. It just made it _hotter_.

 

Mortimus grabbed the boy’s hips, making sure to sit him on the right hole.

 

“Just carefully sit yourself down. Do it slowly and gently. If it hurts, just tell me, okay?”

 

Aryan nodded, taking a deep breath as he slowly lowered himself, doing exactly as Mortimus said. The instant he felt Mortimus enter him; he released a moan, feeling his entire lower body explode into pleasure.

 

“Oh, fuck--” he bit his lip before another moan left his lips, his entire body curving forward as he slipped further onto Mortimus’ cock. The boy underneath him was moaning as well, his entire face flushed red as he dug his nails into Aryan’s hips.

 

As Aryan felt his ass reach Mortimus’ groin, he knew he had to go up again. He pushed himself up with the help of Mortimus and pushed himself down again, groaning in pleasure from how rough Mortimus felt inside him. Mortimus was loving how tight Aryan was. He could feel his inner muscles squeezing at his cock and inviting him in.

 

“You’re doing great, baby,” Mortimus praised, squeezing at Aryan’s hips. The boy felt immediately encouraged, his movements starting to quicken. Once he was getting the hang of it, he was pretty much bouncing on Mortimus’ hips, his cock sliding in and out of Aryan’s cunt at fast speeds. He had secreted many fluids as he went, making the intrusions less dry and rough. Aryan took in his full length every time so it wasn't long until he released a pained groan and stopped for a moment. He felt like something inside him had ripped, and he wasn't far from wrong. The blood seeping from his vagina just joined with the 'lube', masking the injury he had sustained. His cherry had popped, but he kept going after a small break. He didn't care about the pain, he needed more.

 

Mortimus looked impatient as Aryan stopped, but he knew why. It didn't bother him, but once Aryan started up again, he immediately buckled in pleasure. Seconds passed and Mortimus was already turned on as fuck again. “Fuck... Fasterrr,” Mortimus whined, his needy personality finally coming out of hiding. “Fuck me faster!” He begged, wrapping hands around Aryan’s thighs as he moaned.

 

Mortimus looked so pathetic under him. One eye was clenched shut as the other stared Aryan directly in the eye, he was biting his lips so hard that they were almost turning white, and his face was flushed red as he drooled like a dog. He looked so pathetic; so fuckable. So usable. Aryan wanted him to feel everything, he wanted him to beg and scream until his voice went raw.

 

“Beg more; you dirty slut,” Aryan hissed, starting to slow his movements just to fuel Mortimus’ desires to scream and beg for more.

 

“God, please don’t stop! Ah--” he moaned, feeling his legs seize. “Continua a rimbalzare su di me!” In a sudden moment, he was speaking Italian. It was like a switch had been flipped in his brain, completely changing his dialect. “Più veloce! Per favore!”

 

Aryan had no idea what he was saying, but it was fucking hot. He started to bounce on his hips again, sliding Mortimus in and out of him. He went faster than before-- and harder-- making sure he could hear every last shameful noise Mortimus made.

 

When Mortimus' fingers started to dig into his skin, he knew the boy was close to releasing. With the full knowledge that he couldn't get pregnant, he kept going, helping Mortimus get to his orgasm faster.

 

"Fuck, I'm close," he grunted, his nails almost completely breaking through Aryan's skin. Soon enough, a long moan left his lips and he bucked into Aryan, releasing a load of cum inside him. The white fluid leaked from Aryan's cunt, joining the dribbles of precum that had already been there.

 

Aryan hit his orgasm at the same time, moaning and pushing himself off Mortimus, rolling onto the bed. The two heavily panted, faces and chests flushed red and sheens of sweat covering their skin as they laid there. They didn’t say anything to each other. They were silent, except for the heavy breaths that slipped past their lips as they stared at the ceiling with smiles. 

 

Mortimus was much more flustered than Aryan. It was like he was still getting bounced on from the way he writhed and moaned. He grabbed desperately at the sheets, clenching his eyes shut as broken breaths squeezed from his burning throat.

 

"Aryannn," he moaned, groping at himself. "I want you to hurt me..." He looked ashamed to say it; face flushed with embarrassed cheeks and gritted teeth suppressing moans. 

 

The older boy could feel himself getting weak from just seeing Mortimus so vulnerable. Hearing him moan his name was fucking orgasmic. He sat up and rolled over, straddling Mortimus' hips. He pressed his groin against him, relishing how submissive he was under Aryan's body. 

 

"Open your eyes and look at me," he ordered, starting to grind himself against Mortimus' sack. The other’s erect dick was slowly rubbing against Aryan's midriff, smothering his skin in come.

 

The sub opened his eyes immediately, bucking as he groaned. He gazed into Aryan's eyes with lust, begging for more. "Please... Please hurt me."

 

Aryan growled and violently grabbed the boy's face, pushing the side of his face roughly to the bed. Mortimus whined from the sudden turn in his neck and the strong force Aryan was pressing against him. "Don't you dare fucking speak without my permission." When Mortimus nodded, Aryan let go of his face and instead used it to rub at the boy's hardened nipples. He noticeably quivered in pleasure, biting his lips as he started to salivate.

 

Aryan leaned down, bringing his lips to Mortimus' chest. First, he sucked and bit at his nipples, sending Mortimus into writhes of pleasure. He kept rubbing at them after but instead sunk his teeth into the younger boy's chest, but not hard enough to draw blood. When he pulled away, his teeth left red marks on his skin. Mortimus obviously loved it. Not only was his back arched as he made shameful noises, he drooled and panted like a dog as he gazed at Aryan with eyes sparkling with bliss. 

 

"Don't come without my permission either, bitch,” he hissed, narrowing his glare on Mortimus to make him feel more vulnerable and weak. The boy shrunk under his gaze, nodding in response.

 

Aryan took another bite at his chest, massaging his teeth into his skin to incite pleasurable tingles. He bit him at least five times before pulling away; noticing Mortimus definitely needed something more.

 

"Do you have any toys in here?" He tested, giving Mortimus the permission to speak. The younger boy bit his lip, nodding.

 

"The last two draws in the drawer..." he murmured, glancing over at the drawer Aryan had got clothes from the other day.

 

Aryan got off Mortimus and climbed off the bed, crouching down to open the drawers. The second last draw was full of bondage and other kinky clothing items. The last draw was full of sex toys, ranging from dildos to vibrators; even strap ons were in there. 

 

Aryan went for the basic approach; pulling out fluffy handcuffs, knee high socks and a glass butt plug. Though, he wasn't quite finished. First, he secured Mortimus' hands with the pink handcuffs and told him to put the socks on and put the plug in. He looked more through the toy draw. It wasn't just toys. There were whips, needles, knives, guns, ropes, and a whole lot of other painful shit. If Mortimus wanted pain, he'd give it to him. But he'd give it to him in the most pleasurable way possible; a way that didn’t have to make Aryan feel horrible again. He pulled out a strap-on dildo, connecting the harness around his waist. It was like having a dick again, though; it was completely black and didn't have any nerves. He wouldn't feel it as he fucked him, but at least he could hear him moan and whine.

 

He crawled back onto the bed, glad to see Mortimus was ready for him. He was flustered and whining, having trouble to resist touching himself. Aryan was also glad to see Mortimus remembered his rules. He noticed the plug wasn't correctly placed in so he pushed it just a little farther, smiling as Mortimus bit his lip with a soft gasp. The older boy turned him over so he was sitting on his knees with his ass in the air and his arms spread out in front of him. Mortimus had his cheek against the sheets, gazing back at Aryan with lustful eyes. He was salivating just from the pure excitement. Even his cock seemed to be dripping everywhere.

 

Aryan prodded at his taint and fondled with his sack as he waited for the right moment to take the butt plug out. Mortimus was only getting more agitated the longer he waited and Aryan wanted to tease him to the extreme. He wouldn't give the needy boy what he wanted. He would have be patient and sit through the foreplay.

 

As he thought he would be loose enough for the dildo, he took the plug out and he groped Mortimus’ ass to keep him steady and he lined up the dildo to Mortimus' entrance, thrusting it in violently without warning. Mortimus moaned loudly and gasped in pain from how dry the entry was. His entire body jolted from the sudden intrusion. Aryan wasn't going easy on him. He kept thrusting hard, fast and deep, marveling at the different ranges of sounds Mortimus could make. He moaned, whined, screamed like a girl, gasped and grunted as Aryan fucked him. He was drooling everywhere, tears welling in his eyes from the pain of the thrusts. His body was being violently pushed against the bed, his arms starting to find it hard to support his weakening legs. His cock was erect against his midriff, twitching off his belly and leaking precum from the ecstasy coursing through his veins.

 

"Oh, fuck me-- fuck me, Aryan! Ah," he begged and moaned, curling his toes as he held back the urge to release.

 

Aryan growled, thrusting painfully harder to show Mortimus who was the boss. The younger groaned and wiped his tears against the sheets. Fuck, his entire face was red and hot. He felt like it was on fire. So did his ass. At least the fluids leaking from him kept the sex more wet than dry. Even Aryan was leaking fluids, but he ignored them so he focus all his attention on Mortimus.

 

He pulled out, turning Mortimus around so he was lying on his back. Mortimus' legs pretty much wrapped themselves around Aryan, ready for him to push in again. He didn't hesitate to do so. With a powerful thrust, he entered again, smiling as he watched the expressions play out on Mortimus' face. He drooled in pleasure, panting wildly as his ass was fucked raw. Every time Aryan pushed in, Mortimus felt his body launch forward from the mere force of the thrust. His groin was aching for release. He moaned, biting his lip as he watched himself leak all over his own stomach.

 

"Do you like this you dirty whore?" Aryan seethed, thrusting in harder to incite deep groans from Mortimus.

 

"Y-yyes, m-masterrr," he murmured, gazing into the older boy's eyes.

 

"Pervert." He grabbed one of Mortimus' arms and pulled him up so his back was upright. He caressed his fingers along the inner skin near Mortimus' pit, watching as Mortimus writhed at the touch. The touch was soft, until Aryan sunk his teeth into his skin. He sucked at the flesh before dragging his lips away, wiping the saliva from his mouth. Mortimus loved it. He seemed to love getting bitten in general.

 

"Please, more..." He couldn't help himself from begging, but Aryan didn't mind this time around. It was hot. He bit into his skin again, pushing down hard so Mortimus felt the burn. His eyes were brimmed with tears but he was groaning in bliss. Aryan was still thrusting at him, not as hard as before, but he could see Mortimus needed to come.

 

"You can come now," Aryan ordered, licking up Mortimus' arm. The boy nodded gently and moaned as he let himself discharge come. The fluid went on Aryan's chest. He stopped thrusting. "Clean it up."

 

Mortimus, desperate to get fucked, made haste of licking his own cum from Aryan's chest. He pretty much slurped it up like a slurpee, moaning as he did. His cum was hard to see from how pale Aryan was, but he knew he got it when he tasted the bitter tang to it. Aryan pushed him away when he had enough. Though, Aryan pulled out and let Mortimus sit up on his forelegs, pressing their chests against each other. Mortimus was panting to the point where he sounded like he was going to choke on his own breaths and his body was glistening in a sheen of sweat.

 

Aryan urged him to sit up so he could aim the dildo for his entrance, and then made him sit on his length. The dildo slid into Mortimus' ass more smooth this time around and he wrapped his arms around Aryan as he whimpered. His head was dug into the crane of his neck, whining and muttering profanities that he couldn't suppress by simply biting his lips. Aryan started to thrust and pound against him as Mortimus bounced on his thighs, struggling to keep his face hidden.

 

The older boy couldn't find the right position. He was looking for the thing that excited him the most. He noticed Mortimus needed to come again. "You can release, baby," he cooed, but Mortimus shook his head.

 

"I don't want to lick my come up again..." He muttered, glancing up at him.

 

Aryan narrowed his eyes and nodded. "I can fix that."

 

He pulled Mortimus off him and flipped him around, pressing himself against the younger boy's back. He pushed in immediately, making Mortimus' groin jolt forward from the forceful thrust. Aryan hid his face in Mortimus' shoulder as the boy craned his neck upward and moaned loud and joviously, his entire body quivering from pleasure. He couldn't feel his legs, they were like jelly. He felt so hot, too.

 

Aryan slipped his fingers into Mortimus' mouth, holding his mouth open as he pressed delicate fingers against Mortimus' tongue. He was drooling all over the boy's fingers, sucking lightly at them to please his master. Aryan started to thrust his fingers in Mortimus' mouth, grinning against his skin as he gasped. He reverted back to just pulling his mouth open and letting Mortimus' suck and lick his fingers, thrusting painfully deep inside Mortimus' ass. The boy did come, discharging a load onto the sheets instead of Aryan's pasty skin.

 

Aryan definitely liked this position the best. He moved his lips to Mortimus' neck, licking at the sensitive flesh and sucking at it. He brought blood to the surface of his neck as he sucked down hard, even to the point that teeth were involved. He grazed his teeth along his neck and back, sucking at nearly every spot on his back and biting down hard to leave red marks.

 

Mortimus came again. His dick felt over stimulated and tired, so was his mind. Although, the pleasure was fucking magnificent. It was unlike anything he had ever felt before. No one had used Mortimus so much before. They were always so hesitant and scared to hurt him, but Aryan knew what he was doing. He wanted Mortimus to suffer and enjoy the things he did to him.

 

He also knew the boy had feelings for him. Though, he wouldn't mention it.

 

"You're so beautiful, Mortimus," he purred, biting down softly at the boy's neck. His thrusts were getting weak. He was also tired. He was panting and sweating, leaking fluids that he didn't dare think about.

 

"You are too, master." He rested his arms in front of him instead of behind his back, touching himself but making sure Aryan didn't notice.

 

Aryan didn't notice. He was too busy resting his cheek against Mortimus' back. He stopped thrusting but didn't pull out. He couldn't believe he had just done _that_. He _fucked_ Mortimus. He fucked him so many goddamn times. He made him come four times or more as he ploughed his ass without mercy. He finally felt the real feeling of being dominant. It was brilliant. He didn't want to be submissive; he just wanted Mortimus under his control. He wanted to hear him beg and whine, he wanted to watch as his face contorted into pleasure as he thrusted deep inside him, and he wanted to feel his sweaty skin under his finger tips.

 

He wanted Mortimus to be his.

 

Finally, he pulled out and removed the strap-on, throwing it to the floor. He felt like a girl again without some sense of warmth and contact against his crotch. All he had left was… _That thing_. He didn’t really think having sex would help him forget about his actual sex organ, but if Mortimus thought so than it just _had to be right!_ He really wished Mortimus would pull his head out of his ass once in a while. 

 

He moved back and sat on his ass, pulling his knees up to his chest. Mortimus seemed to move at the same time as him, turning around and sitting near the pillows, resting his back on the bed head. With the way he sat with his legs in a manspread, his dick was in clear view. Aryan sighed-- a ‘disappointed but not surprised’ sigh-- and rubbed his eye. 

 

“Look, Mortimus, can we go back to how we were before? I… Can’t have you as my slave. It makes me feel bad.”

 

The other was still incredibly flustered and chuckled hoarsely, surprised. “Seriously? You wanna go back to me being a sadistic, controlling asshole?”

 

“I’m surprised you even noticed you were one. But no, I don’t mean it like that. I just… Ugh, I can’t explain it.” He held his face in his hand, sighing again. It was more of a frustrated sigh this time, followed by more fidgety eye rubbing.

 

Mortimus finally sat with his legs together, though it didn’t hide much. “I know what you mean. You’re into switch, aren’t you?”

 

Aryan glanced up. “You mean switch as in the BDSM thing, right?” When Mortimus nodded, he nodded as well. “Yeah, I’m into it,” he continued. “Well, I just realised, actually. I find it hot when you’re dominant, but not when you torture me.”

 

“I find it hot when you’re dominant, too.”

 

“Obviously. I never thought I’d see myself so helpless and desperate under me,” his words dragged on as he remembered that Mortimus literally was himself. He seemed to forget that a lot. It was probably because Aryan had more of a baby, feminine face than most Mortys, especially Mortimus. The president had put a lot more effort into his appearance, giving him a chiseled, more mature look. 

 

Mortimus smiled in reply, but the two were left in silence for a moment. 

 

“Aryan--” he glanced up-- “I think I know what we should do here.” He had his serious face on so Aryan made it his duty to focus, although; he mainly did it because he always scared of getting hit. “We’ll go switch. I’ll go easier on you since you’re not really into pain, but, you can go as hard as you want on me because I’m a sadomasochist. Deal?” He held his hand out as if he was ready to make some sort of fucking demon deal with him. 

 

Aryan was ready to lose his soul to agreeing to this sick shit, anyway. He reached and grabbed Mortimus’ hand, shaking it to seal the deal. He hardly even processed that he just got himself into a switch BDSM relationship with his captor, and not to mention, he was the goddamn president too. What the fuck was wrong with him?

 

"Great! Now that that's settled, I guess I'll start off with the fact that you won't have to sleep in that dirty, old cell anymore."

 

"Wait, seriously?" Aryan was smiling, hope in his heart. His hope was not betrayed.

 

"Mhm, you'll be sleeping in this room, now." He patted the bed down, glancing at Aryan with a smirk.

 

"Thank you." Aryan didn't know what else to say. He was just glad he didn't have to feel like a dirty prisoner anymore. At least he would feel better as Mortimus fucked him or as he fucked Mortimus. As long as both sides are happy, everyone gets to have some fun.

 

Mortimus gave him another smile before hopping off the bed, putting his boxers back on, and moving to head out.

 

"Wait," Aryan said, stopping Mortimus in his tracks. "Is there anything to do here?"

 

Oh, Mortimus had forgotten people needed entertainment to keep them happy. He went to his bedside draw and pulled out a hardlight tablet, handing it to Aryan. "Do you like writing?"

 

Aryan shook his head. "It's too hard."

 

Mortimus pursed his lips in thought. "Well, I can't fix that, but what about drawing?"

 

"Kinda. I'm more of a watcher than a doer."

 

"Ah, there's YouTube and other streaming sites on it, too. You can just sit here and watch movies and stuff all day if you want." 

 

Aryan nodded, thanking him again. He almost told him he loved him, but that wasn't true. He couldn't love a psychopathic murderer, but he could sure as hell lust for him. Maybe this whole prince charming thing Mortimus was playing was a psychopath thing. Actually, since the tablet had Google, he decided he would search it up instead. He wanted to know everything about Mortimus. He wanted to know what to be ready for and what to be scared of.

 

“Do you need anything else?”

 

Aryan glanced up, thought for a second, and then shook his head. It’s not like he could ask to leave or anything. Mortimus would probably snap if he said something like that.

 

“Alright, I’ll be back eventually.” And with that, he headed out of the room. Aryan immediately searched up about psychopaths and anything that linked with Mortimus. 

 

He found out about the psychopathy checklist minutes later. It had twenty different traits of a psychopath and as he read on, he realised that nearly every single trait was something similar to the way Mortimus behaved.

 

He had superficial charm, a grandiose ego, a strong desire for stimulation or proneness to boredom, he was pathological liar, he was cunning and manipulative, he had a lack of remorse or guilt, lack of empathy, and had very promiscuous sexual behaviour. Those had to be the most accurate out of them. He didn’t know Mortimus well enough to check off the others, but he knew if he grew more attached to Mortimus, he’d find that all of them were true.

 

That meant he had to be careful. If Mortimus got too excited, he could end up ditching this switch deal and just being presumptuous and overbearing again. Aryan didn’t want that. If he was forced to live with this psycho for the rest of his life, he wanted to be happy at least a little.

 

He kept searching up different things that could link to Mortimus. He found something called the MAOA-L gene while reading about psychopaths. It was a mutated gene, also known as the ‘psycho gene’, and it sounded so much like Mortimus. 

 

It caused hyper responsiveness of the amygdala. Aryan had to Google so many things just to figure out what they were. Apparently, the amygdala was the human emotion centre. He knew Mortimus’ didn’t work. That boy didn’t care about anyone.

 

He dropped the tablet onto the bed in a panic as Mortimus walked back into the room. Aryan tried to act innocent, even though what he was searching wasn’t really something Mortimus would get angry about. The younger boy was holding two plates in his hands, plates that both held a sandwich. Mortimus cocked his brow from Aryan’s sudden panic, shrugging as Aryan just weakly smiled.

 

“Make sure you get the right one. I don’t think you’d enjoy biting into flesh,” he chuckled lightly, walking to the side of the bed and handing Aryan a plate. The boy immediately checked what was in it, sighing in relief after seeing it was just a plain sandwich with chicken and whatnot. Actually, he hoped it was chicken...

 

“You like meat, right? I didn’t even check if you were allergic to anything.”

 

He didn’t like meat because of very certain reasons, but he didn’t mention it. “I’ve never had an allergic reaction before so I suppose I’m not allergic to anything.”

 

“Good, that means you can eat anything you want in the kitchen.” He sat next to Aryan, sitting with his knees up and spread, placing the plate between his legs and pulling a remote from the bedside draw. With a single click, the ceiling dropped a screen almost as big as the room, a screen that was obviously the type of shit that rich people had when they had their own home-cinemas. Mortimus relaxed against the bed head and put on some slasher flick on Netflix, slowly taking a bite of his sandwich as if he was entranced by the movie.

 

Aryan kinda just watched him eat for a second, cringing as he heard the flesh in the sandwich squelch and as it bled out into the bread and onto the plate. He watched the movie instead, even if he wasn’t into slashers. He ate his own sandwich to take his mind off the movie since it was already pretty gory the second it started, eventually closing his eyes after he finished his meal. Listening to people screaming and dying past his closed eyes wasn’t the nicest, but he eventually found himself slipping into a peaceful sleep. He rested his head on Mortimus’ shoulder, smiling lightly as he felt Mortimus entwine their fingers.

 

“Goodnight,” Mortimus cooed, placing a chaste kiss to Aryan’s forehead. The smaller boy nuzzled into his shoulder a little more and fell asleep easily. He was already tired enough and it was probably the only time he felt comfortable with his eye closed for the entire week he had been trapped here.

 

He dreamt of nothing.


End file.
